Asset Management
by Macx
Summary: "A friend once told me, in our line of work you walk in the dark. Doesn't mean you have to walk in it alone." Because loneliness is a destructive force, especially for someone who can't deal with it, without a pack. Finch is more than surprised when he gets a small note addressed to 'John's handler'. He's even more shocked to discover who asked to meet him; alone. Firewall AU.
1. Chapter 1

I started writing this way before the third season (especially the one episode about Shaw's 'condition'), so nothing of that is included in here. Carter is still a detective. I've had this little fic for a few months now. I got side-tracked by the Pacific Rim AU I started and this sat on my hard drive; I didn't forget about it, though, and I now cleaned up the first part to be posted. So here you have it :) This is the first fic in the series that is Person of Interest only! Neither James nor Q make an appearance. You have to know the prior stories leading up to this, especially Lunatic! It won't make any sense without it.

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SERIES: Firewall (POI only this time)

Series List:

1. High Voltage  
2. Live Wire  
3. Sometimes the Words are Hidden  
4. Seasonal Currents  
5. Redeemed  
6. Not All the Facts  
7. Under Pressure  
8. Circuit Breaker  
9. That Which Is Home  
10. Lunatic (POI crossover starts)  
11. Mostly Business as Usual  
12. Phoenix Rising  
13. All the Way from the Dark  
14. Shadow Dancing  
15. After the Storm Breaking

It had been a curious message, left on Carter's desk, addressed to the detective, but meant for Finch. There had been no name mentioned, just 'John's handler' and Carter had called him immediately to let him know.

"No one saw a thing," she told Finch. "Fusco's out on a case, so the desk was unoccupied. Any idea who it might be?" Carter asked, sounding none too happy about her role as a messenger and the fact that someone had connected the dots.

"No, but let me reassure you, Detective Carter, I will find out."

Harold Finch wasn't a very trusting man and had a healthy dose of paranoia going for him. The phone call couldn't be traced. No one would get the location of the library or any other place out of that message.

"Need any help?" she offered.

Finch was slightly touched and suppressed a smile. "No, thank you, detective. I can handle it."

"Of course you can," she sighed, then disconnected.

Carter had sent him a picture of the letter and the envelope, but aside from an address there was nothing tell-tale or unique. It was handwritten on standard paper and an envelope that simply had 'Carter' written on it. Not even a stamp.

Of course, he had researched what was at this address, which was a café smack in the middle of downtown, out in the open on a plaza, surrounded by tourists, business people and New York natives alike.

A safe place.

Nowhere to hide and still so many places to be invisible.

And also a place to have snipers aiming at one's head.

Reese was running an errant and Finch had left him a brief text to inform him of his location, though he had no doubt the other man would get it out of The Machine somehow if he threatened it enough. Or asked nicely.

Finch couldn't be sure anymore. His program had evolved incredibly fast, had developed in a way he had barely dared to dream of, and now it was also free.

His work.

And he took a certain amount of pride in it.

Sitting at one of the tables of the coffee shop, his back to the wall, eyes on the crowd, Finch wondered if the decision to come here alone might not have been a little too overconfident. Well, he had Bear. The dog wouldn't let anyone harm him and he had seen what it was capable of.

He had also chosen the inside of the coffee shop since the likelihood of a sniper out in the open was not to be trifled with.

"Thank you for coming."

He looked up, the movement of his head slightly hindered, right into the sharp eyes of a man he had never met in person but had seen multiple times through cameras and from a distance.

Mark Snow.

Ex-CIA agent.

Werewolf.

Packless alpha.

"You know who I am, so don't even try to play dumb. I know who you are, though your name still escapes me."

"Then how do you know I am the one you are looking for?"

The smile was thin and humorless. "I took a gamble."

Bear was watching the werewolf, not aggressive, not docile. He was ready to spring into action should Finch be threatened, but he wasn't warning Snow off either.

"Mr. Snow," Finch replied neutrally, voice even. He congratulated himself on that. "Why don't you join me?"

Snow slid into the chair opposite of him. He looked… not good. Finch had last seen the man almost dead, drugged, after Stanton had kidnapped him. He had lost his whole pack to his psychotic, former beta. Last that had been known of him was that he had left the CIA, disappeared, gone deep.

Now here he was; back in New York.

"What can I do for you, Agent Snow?"

The man's pale lips stretched into a grimace of a smile. "You know as well as I do that I'm not an agent anymore. So drop the charade."

Finch briefly inclined his head, glancing at Bear. The Malinois was still watching the wolf.

"You contacted me. I'm surprised you did, actually."

Another grimace. Snow's pale skin and too gaunt look spoke of the past months' trial. Losing everything wasn't easy; Finch could relate. Losing a pack was even worse to an alpha. The CIA might have established another, but trust wasn't easily given once more. That Finch could relate to as well.

"How is our mutual friend?"

"You should ask him, not me."

The brown eyes grew sharper. "I never had any doubt what John could be, what he was for my pack. I made mistakes. A whole lot of them. I should have listened to instincts I was born with. It cost me everything."

"And yet here you are."

He snorted, glancing out the window, roaming over the wide plaza. Dressed in jeans and a black sweater, Snow looked far from the CIA field agent Finch had watched for a while. He looked almost lost, alone, like he was trying to swim and found himself failing in a tank that held far larger predators. Predators that had yet to approach, but he would show a weakness soon.

"Why did you contact me?" Finch repeated.

"You are John's handler. He's a hellhound. He needs someone to tame his instincts, to rein him in, to guide him. He's a weapon the Special Forces created and the CIA continued to shape. He's a superb killer."

Snow's eyes never wavered from Finch's. The cipher refused to be baited.

"You're handling that weapon now and it hasn't blown up in your face. That tells me he trusts you. More than is probably healthy and so much more than he ever trusted any one of us. You're there for him. You have his loyalty."

Finch felt a spark of panic and bit it back. Where did Snow have that knowledge from?

As if he had read his mind, the werewolf smirked and tapped his nose.

And yes, Finch refused to react in any way, right down to blushing. His expression stayed carefully bland and almost disinterested.

"I never figured John would ever bind himself to someone. He was always part of the pack. I realize I thought wrong. I made many mistakes. And yes, I did some research of my own, used some remaining informants and contacts and used my access to the CIA data base before I was given the boot."

Good god…

"Not that there is a lot," Snow added. "John's file, of course. And his true file. And some hints as to The Man in the Suit. A few notes here or there that finally make sense, now that I'm talking to you."

Finch's face remained a blank mask. "What do you want, Mr. Snow?"

The pale face seemed to reflect weariness and pain all of a sudden, briefly, barely contained, then Snow had himself under control once more.

"I'm not here in any capacity but my own, though. There is nothing out there for me."

"Then why come here?"

Finch was getting more annoyed by the minute that he had yet to get a straight answer. Bear was still rather relaxed, but he was watching the former agent closely.

"I know what you and John do. I went over the old files, over what the FBI had on The Man in the Suit. I followed new leads, rearranged a few things, and finally understood. You run an operation very much outside the law, saving people in danger. I have no idea where you get the information from, but John is there. Shooting kneecaps."

The smirk was back.

"You know I have no pack. I have nothing. I'm on my own and I can't continue like this. Werewolves aren't made to live without a pack."

"I'm sure you could find another."

"There is no other."

"The CIA has run with packs as teams for ages. You're a successful agent."

"I doubt I would manage psych eval."

Finch placed both hands flat on the table before him, holding the sharp eyes, unblinking.

"Then what do you expect of me, Mr. Snow?"

"I want in."

Finch froze. Something inside of him screeched with alarm. The intensity of the brown eyes grew and there was even a fine sheen of yellow. The supernatural side was rising.

"Threatening me won't get you anywhere," the cipher said flatly.

The yellow disappeared. "I'm rather far from threatening and very much into begging."

"After everything you did... To John… You tried to kill him multiple times, Mr. Snow. I'd rather not have you around."

Snow closed his eyes, clearly fighting back a more primal response.

"It was my job. I did my job. I followed orders because I was a good doggy. And I did it badly because my own beta killed my whole pack and tried to kill me."

"You had ordered her to be killed, by John," Finch reminded him. "She was good holding a grudge. You might find John doing the same."

The other man's jaw clenched, muscles ticking.

"I was under orders. I believed them. I believed that they were compromised."

"And I believe that an alpha would never turn on its own pack."

The alpha protected his pack. He took care of them. He trusted them and they could trust him in return.

The eyes flared, pain and desperation and anger mixing together, then Snow had himself under control, breathing a little harder. Finch found himself still remarkably calm, right down to a very even heartbeat.

Bear had by now sat up and was watching Snow with intense eyes, tense and ready to jump into action.

"I did a lot of things in my time with the CIA that I'm not proud of. Have you ever looked into your asset's past? Do you know where and who John killed? He followed orders. So did I."

"Blindly, Mr. Snow."

Another flare.

"You want me to believe that you've changed? That you could work with a handler? Outside a werewolf pack? You're still an alpha and that will never change. You can not be what you aren't. You can't not be an alpha. You would try to assume control. I can think of several more reasons that speak against me trusting you."

"You protect your own. Your pack," Snow said softly, nodding briefly.

Yes, to a wolf that made sense, and Snow had very much found back to his more primal instincts in the past months. The CIA had trained him, shaped him, given him the team that had become his pack. He had used his abilities for them. He had forgotten to trust something more instinctive, wilder, primal.

That had changed.

He could smell John on Harold, something that had apparently never registered before when he had had Reese in his fingers.

"My pack," Harold echoed, though they were neither werewolves, nor pack. "Accepting me as a handler would be only one difficulty. I wouldn't be able to keep Mr. Reese from simply tearing you to pieces. And to tell the truth, Mr. Snow, I'm not very much inclined to do so."

It got him a humorless smile. "I don't fault you for it." He glanced to the side and the smile widened a little. "You also seem to have branched out already."

Finch blinked and turned his head a little, catching sight of no one other than Samantha Shaw. Standing at the counter, like she was waiting for something or someone. The woman was dressed in jeans and a black overcoat, watching them with dark eyes and an emotionless expression. But those eyes were intense. They spoke of swift and violent retaliation should Snow twitch in the wrong way.

"New recruit?" Snow asked lightly.

"I believe you would have more success on the open market with your experience. Job applications like yours would be eagerly taken," Finch said, refusing to get into the matter of who Shaw was.

"My supernatural status would make it extremely difficult."

"Others have worked around it."

There was a slightly desperate edge to those features now. The tightness around the eyes was another matter.

"I have lost everything," he said, voice still tightly controlled, but there was a first tremor. "Only another werewolf can fathom what it means to be packless, to be an alpha betrayed by one of his own. You're human. You wouldn't."

Finch regarded him neutrally. "Still you appeal for my help?"

"Because of everyone and everything out there," Snow glanced around again, "seeing what happened already, seeing what John does and how he trusts you, I think you are my only option. Aside from ending it altogether."

Finch frowned. "You ask for my trust."

"I ask for survival," Snow corrected him.

Finch said nothing. He simply regarded the man who had dealt out so much pain, had nearly taken something from him that he had, even back then, considered to be more than a tool, an asset. Now, seeing what John had become, what bound them together, he wasn't sure there was any kind of solution for this problem. For Snow's problem.

"Think about it," the former CIA operative said, rising slowly.

And then he walked out.

Finch remained behind, mind whirling, but he finally paid and left.

Shaw wasn't anywhere to be seen.

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

Finch had made sure he hadn't been followed. The limo had dropped him off at Grand Central. He had navigated through the crowd, taken a side exit, and hailed a cab, which had then driven him to another drop off point. When he had finally arrived back at the library, he was very sure that should Snow have tailed him, he had lost the former CIA agent.

"You're good."

Finch was no longer startled by Shaw's unexpected appearances and he simply freed Bear of his leash for the Malinois to drop down on his doggy bed. The cipher limped over to his computers.

"Thank you, Ms. Shaw. How can I help you?"

"The question is, what did that guy want?"

"A business proposal."

She frowned and walked closer, her movements as smooth and lithe as John's, though she was perfectly human.

"Who is he?"

Finch saw no reason to lie to her, keep the identity of the agent a secret. He tapped a few keys and called the information up on his screen.

"Mark Snow. At least that's what his current name is. Former CIA agent. Former team leader of a task force that consisted of Kara Stanton and John Reese."

She raised an eyebrow, eyes scanning over the information. "Alpha werewolf. Figured as much."

"Of course you did."

She shot him a narrow-eyed look, but Finch just gave the woman a brief smile. He knew her background, knew she had grown up in a werewolf pack, her family. She had the heritage, but it had never taken. Samantha Shaw was very much human with the instincts of her genetic background and sometimes even the emotions of them. If one could talk about emotions in her case.

Finch sometimes wondered if Shaw's inability to connect with emotions of any kind was due to her genetic heritage. Or the jumbled information she had inherited from her parents. Werewolves were very emotional creatures. They used emotions in their changes and while Shaw should probably have been a supernatural, she hadn't turned to be one. She had the basics, the instincts, the grace and power and fervor of her kind, but it stopped there.

And her emotional reactions were… lacking, for want of a better word.

"He lost his pack," Shaw continued reading the file. "His own beta killed them and nearly him, too. Bad instincts, I'd say. They train the good ones right out of a wolf at the agency, that's the trouble. Packs make bad operatives."

Finch gave her another brief smile. "Quite true. Still the CIA keeps insisting they can handle them."

She snorted. "So what did he want?"

"A job, Ms. Shaw."

She raised her eyebrows. "Desperate."

"He is."

The former Intelligence agent turned and smiled darkly, then simply walked away. Finch was mildly puzzled, but when he turned and discovered the tall figure striding into the room, he understood.

Silver flared in the blue eyes, the emotions unchecked, the rage predominant.

"Harold."

"Mr. Reese. Please control yourself. Nothing has happened."

Reese wasn't the type to throw someone against the wall and demand answers. Well, not unless he was protecting a number or defending himself. Right now he just stood there, dark and threatening, fingers clenching and unclenching.

"Please," Finch repeated, rising slowly from his seat.

"What did he want?" The voice, low and raspy, now held a growl that wasn't really human.

"A job. I declined."

The silver flared, then disappeared. Reese looked almost shocked. "A job?"

"He is a very desperate man, Mr. Reese."

The growl was expected and Harold moved over to his partner, placing a calming hand on the shirt-covered chest. Reese was clearly fighting his instincts.

"I'm very much okay, Mr. Reese. Mr. Snow hasn't so much as touched me and I made sure he didn't follow me. I'm also sure that Ms. Shaw took care of a possible tail as well."

Reese covered the hand on his chest with his own, briefly interlacing their fingers, then he dropped their hands and let go.

"I'll take a deeper look into our lone alpha," Finch went on.

"He'll stay around," Reese rumbled, following Finch as he limped back to the computer.

Strong fingers slid over his neck, a reassuring caress for both of them, then Reese was all business as Finch started his hacking. He drifted over to their small kitchen area to get himself some coffee. When a box of donuts landed next to him, Finch looked up and found an hour had passed.

Reese settled on the second chair, lounging more than sitting, all lean lines and natural grace. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, easy and lightly teasing. The rush of emotions had run its course and Harold was looking at the level-headed operative he knew.

"It seems Mr. Snow has hit a very bad road and keeps driving down the wrong way," he commented.

Reese raised an eyebrow. "Why should we care?"

Why indeed.

The man had brought a lot of pain and suffering, had tried to kill John numerous times, and he had sent his pack members to die.

"I firmly believe he won't just disappear this time, Mr. Reese. It's prudent to know what we can about him."

"So what do we know?"

"Mr. Snow has left the CIA. He was terminated and let go."

"Could be a ruse."

Finch gave the other man a mildly annoyed look. "Mr. Reese, please."

It got him a grin. Of course John knew that Finch could go a lot deeper than the surface. He would find even the smallest trace and he would dig deeper and deeper until he hit the bottom, and then continue.

"Mr. Snow wasn't offered another job because of his now very undesirable status. He is an alpha without a pack, has been compromised as a werewolf and an agent, and he didn't accept a new team. He was betrayed by his beta and no handler would want him. His trust issues eclipse yours."

John smirked a little, polishing off the donut.

"He disappeared, but he left a small trail to follow. Mr. Snow is a careful man."

"Not careful enough if you found him."

Finch smiled a little, almost proudly, then went back to being all-business.

"From what I could find, Mr. Snow had a small drug problem for a while. Not a good idea for werewolves. I traced him to a private clinic that specializes in supernaturals. It seems narcotics and alcohol were a problem for him for a few months. He appears clean now, sober, and he took a few questionable jobs to keep himself afloat."

"And now he's back?"

"Adrift. Werewolf psychology is very complicated because of the pack mentality. I wouldn't classify Mr. Snow as even close to stable, but if he finds a purpose he can work out his issues."

Reese's rumble was soft, a growl that was barely audible.

"I have no plans to include him into our business, John," Finch calmed him.

"But he'll be around."

"Most likely."

The blue eyes flared with silver once more, narrowing threateningly. Finch simply met the wordless outbreak, weathering the anger, until Reese had himself under control once more.

"We can't change the fact, Mr. Reese. You can't evict him from New York."

"I can make sure he leaves voluntarily," was the low threat.

Finch gave him a disapproving glower. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" he pointed out.

Reese gave him a teasing smile. "On my way." With that he pushed up with the same easy grace he displayed in everything and left again.

Finch refused to huff in annoyance, but some of it must have come out anyway. Bear looked at him, then curled up in his bed with a low huff himself.

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"John."

Reese gave the detective a brief smile. "Detective Carter," he greeted her amiably.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" she asked, not sounding pleased at all.

"A heads-up."

Carter frowned. "What for? You about to blow something up? Shoot a few kneecaps?"

He chuckled. "It's not always about that."

"With you, I expect it to be."

"Mark Snow is back."

That stopped her, eyes narrowing. "Snow? Really? I thought the CIA had dragged his sorry ass back to Washington."

"He's not CIA any more."

"Really." She didn't sound too sorry. "Retired or redacted?"

"A bit of both."

"Why did he come back?"

Reese watched the traffic around them, sharp eyes categorizing the people for threat and non-threat.

"He's lonely."

Carter barked a laugh. "Lonely." She shook his head. "You sure he isn't here to find you? Take you down again to get back into someone's good graces?"

Reese raised a brow. "He didn't take me down."

"If that wasn't him taking you down, it was a pretty good job pretending."

He gave her a dark look.

"He's not here for you?"

"Not really. He hasn't sought me out."

"You're a hard man to find sometimes, John."

He smiled humorlessly. "He left a note for Finch on your desk. He knew you had connections to us, to me. He knows where to find me if he wants to."

"So why Finch?"

"There are extenuating circumstances."

"Do tell."

He nodded at the path leading down into the park, away from possible ears. The detective followed him, giving him a curious look.

"The CIA employs supernaturals."

She frowned. "That's nothing new. Law enforcement, military, you name it. Some are born soldiers." She raised an eyebrow at him.

Reese didn't react. "Snow's a werewolf."

"Figures," Carter muttered.

"You don't seem surprised."

"I met a few in my time with the Army. Packs, mostly. Tight-knit groups, tough, hard to bring down, and persistent. Like I said, perfect for law enforcement and the military, though their mentality gets in the way sometimes. You gotta have a handler who knows what to do and say. You need someone whom the alpha trusts."

Reese raised an eyebrow. Carter looked like a light bulb was going off in her head.

"Snow's the alpha."

Silence.

"You were on his team. Stanton… she was his beta?"

A nod.

"Damn," the detective muttered. "Worst kind of betrayal. I've seen alphas after their pack was decimated. Not a pretty sight and one of the reasons why the handler's so important. Wolves are ferocious, but if you hit them hard and in the right spot, you can take them down easily."

"Stanton killed them all."

"Except you." Carter gazed at him, then nodded as if to herself. "You're not one of them. You're not a werewolf."

Reese's smile was bland, giving nothing away.

"That's why he came back?" she wanted to know.

"He's spiraling, Joss. Downward. Fast."

"Not a lot of sympathy here," she replied. "And I see there's none with you either. Is he gonna be a problem?"

"I'm not sure."

"He called on Finch. Looking for a handler or trouble?"

Reese was silent, staring ahead, trying to suppress the flash of anger at the memory.

"Both," Carter surmised. "How many bodies do I have to expect."

"None. Or only one." Reese flashed her a grim smile. "His."

"John…"

"I'm not going to hunt him, detective, don't worry. Should he get underfoot, I can't guarantee for anything."

"Of course not."

They walked in silence for a while. Carter seemed to be lost in thought. At the other side of the park she stopped, looking at the busy people all around them.

"You were in his unit, ran with the pack, he was your alpha in a way. You're not a wolf." She looked back at him, meeting the blue eyes head on. "You're a supernatural, aren't you, John?"

Reese curled a corner of his mouth into a little smirk. She sighed.

"I knew it. How bad can it be?"

"You tell me."

Carter rolled her eyes. "I really don't want to know."

But she did. And she would find out. Reese was convinced of it. She was a good investigator and he trusted her. Carter would discover what he was, but right now he wasn't inclined to give her more than he already had. She knew about pack dynamics, knew about werewolves from experience, and she could put two and two together, and not get five. Few other supernaturals could work with a pack and hellhounds would probably come up right on top of that short list.

"I'll keep an eye out for Snow. I might just have to arrest him for showing his face around here again."

"You do that, detective. And be careful."

"You too, John."

They parted ways and Reese walked back into the park, heading roughly toward the library. It would be a long walk, but he felt like stretching his legs. He was still fighting through the emotions kicked loose by Snow's unexpected appearance, his approach of Harold, his not so hidden offer to work with them.

Aside from the trust issue, there was the fact that an alpha would never submit to anyone but a trusted handler, and Finch wasn't trusted, and he would never be Snow's handler.

Reese felt a wave of fury run hotly through his veins.

No, he wouldn't. Ever.

John wasn't in the mood to share Finch with anyone, aside from Shaw, and even that only reluctantly. He knew it had him come across as possessive, but the nature of the hellhound was rather straight-forward in that regard.

Shaw had once only given him that half-raised eyebrow, then smirked, and gone her way.

Reese knew that Snow's presence in New York might become a problem, but for now he would keep a low profile himself.

tbc...


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you all right, Mr. Reese?"

Breathing hard, shaking his right hand, John looked at the five goons who had had the bad luck of not believing his earlier warnings. He didn't think he had broken anything. It just hurt a little more than usual, but that would pass soon.

There would be bruises, though. His ribs might have suffered a little and he tasted blood in his mouth. He had a split lip.

"Should have listened, guys," he said softly, stepping over an unmoving but very much alive body. "I'm fine, Harold," he told his handler.

"Which does nothing to reassure me," was the snarky response.

"No holes, no knife wounds, just a few bruises," Reese added, grinning.

"Where is Mr. Wayne?"

"High-tailed it out of here. He has a penchant for running."

Reese sounded a little annoyed. He had been trying to catch their latest number, keep him alive until matters were dealt with, but the man had an even worse case of paranoia than Finch. He trusted absolutely no one and while it had kept him alive, it also kept Reese from protecting him more efficiently.

"I have his last cell phone position," Finch told him, fingers flying over the keyboard. "It seems he is currently on the phone and moving north. I'm sending you his GPS data."

Reese grinned. "Thanks, Finch."

He tapped the earpiece to switch it off, and he was off chasing their elusive number again.

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He walked into the library, carrying a cup of Sencha tea and a box of donuts; pink with sprinkles, sugar powered with jam filling, and glistening with chocolate.

Harold gave his partner a mild scowl as the sweets were placed next to the keyboard, the tea put almost on top of it. Finch caught the cup and balanced it carefully.

"How is Mr. Wayne?"

"Detective Carter is taking good care of him." Reese took a pink donut and bit into it, washing down the sweet delicacy with coffee.

Bear sat attentively between them, looking hopeful.

"You're on a diet," Finch reminded him.

The dog whined pitifully.

"It's not good for your digestive system."

Reese smirked, sprinkles clinging to his lips. "Neither is it for ours." He licked the sprinkles off.

Finch scowled, but he refused to give in. "There are doggy treats for a reason."

"You hear that, Bear?"

It got them a whuffling whine, then the Malinois curled up on his doggy bed, looking almost like he was pouting.

Reese's hand brushed over Finch's neck. It seemed innocent, but for them it was an intimate caress. Showing this kind of intimacy they shared wasn't easy for either man and it were the small gestures, here or there, a caress, a touch, a brush of lips against Harold's temple, that spoke of the deeper connection.

"New number?" the hellhound asked calmly.

"No. It seems we have the night off."

"Dinner?" Reese offered.

Finch studied the lithe form, looking dark and deadly and smooth in the black suit and the white shirt. His uniform. The Man in the Suit. Reese wore those clothes like a second skin, they moved with him, they were him. Finch liked to look at him, liked to watch him, and the few times he had watched him fight had been… eye-opening.

The man was a supernatural creature and he was deadly; very, very deadly. He had seen what was hidden underneath those suits and it was just as attractive as the fully dressed version of Reese.

"You just brought me donuts, Mr. Reese. I believe it's a little early for dinner."

"Want to work off the calories, Harold?"

"You have had better come-ons."

"It's not my worst," was the low rumble.

"That I give you." Harold tried not to give in to his rising amusement. "I have a few things to run before dinner. Your choice of establishment."

Reese chuckled. "Deal." He trailed his hand over Finch's back, then he was gone, Bear in tow. Finch watched them depart with a fond expression and finally turned to his coding and research.

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He knew where Snow spent the nights.

Three different locations in three different areas of New York City.

One was a hotel room in an area favored as a cheap tourist residence with good subway and bus connections to the sights in town.

One was a rental place. One bedroom, kitchenette, bathroom, barely large enough to call it an apartment.

One was a condemned house. That had Reese puzzled for a while until he noticed that Snow only slept there in wolf form.

Hm. Interesting.

Of course the alpha noticed his tail. Reese wasn't trying to be invisible. He wanted the man to know he was under surveillance.

Snow never did more than just look at where Reese stood, face neutral, like he was watching the hellhound in return.

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Three days after he had started his on and off surveillance, the condemned house was abandoned by Snow.

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He started using cheap hotels at random, no longer seeking out the one-bedroom place or the residence area.

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For two days Snow was suddenly gone. Reese wasn't worried.

Shaw just gave him unreadable looks, like she knew exactly where Snow was and waiting for Reese to get back into the game.

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It wasn't coincidence that he met the alpha outside an office building while waiting for his new number to finish her daily hours as a legal secretary and leave for home.

Dressed in a casual suit, looking for all intents and purposes like just another manager type, Snow held a large paper cup from a known coffee chains tore.

Both men looked at one another, Reese feeling his hackles rise, the tension almost crawling up his limbs.

Snow smiled slowly, far from threateningly, and raised his cup to sip from it. Then his eyes strayed past John and his mouth curled into a much bigger smile.

Reese knew who he was seeing.

Shaw's expression was unreadable as she met the alpha's eyes.

And then Snow disappeared into the crowd.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch's voice broke into the moment.

"Nothing new, Finch," John only said, returning to his task at hand. "She's still in the office."

Shaw raised an eyebrow, then walked wordlessly into the building to get a closer look.

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Two weeks after his first contact with the former CIA operative, Finch left the Midtown building, moving purposefully along the busy street. He wasn't surprised to find he acquired a shadow.

"Mr. Reese. You are a long way from home."

Reese smiled a little. "I was in the neighborhood."

Finch didn't believe him, though it hadn't been meant as a lie. Reese fell in step beside him.

"You don't have to protect me. Mr. Snow isn't even close to me."

Reese cocked an eyebrow. "You tagged him?" he asked, voice low, almost impressed.

Finch waited at a red light. "In a way."

"I'm impressed, Finch."

"Which means you don't have to follow me around."

"I was merely interested in how your therapy went today," was the mild answer.

The light turned green and Finch shot his partner a look that told John just how bad the lie had been.

"I appreciate the gesture, Mr. Reese, but your talents are needed somewhere else."

"Shaw is handling the number. I'm free for the day."

"To follow me."

"To accompany you - if you want."

The cipher walked on in silence until they reached the park, where he sat down on one of the empty benches. Reese took a seat beside him.

"Do you tag Snow as a danger to my life?"

He raised a brow. "He's a danger to everyone."

"Like you. Like Ms. Shaw. Like everyone else who fell through the system at the end of their promising career."

Reese studied the other man's features, silent, contemplating. "You want him as an asset?"

He nearly didn't make it a question.

Finch turned his neck stiffly, looking at him. "No. I can't trust him, Mr. Reese."

"You trusted me. Shaw."

"You I chose. I knew who you were, who you had been, what you had done. Not in every gruesome details," he added. "But I knew. And I knew I needed you. Ms. Shaw… I considered her talents as… something we might be able to use."

"She found you. In the library." Reese gave him a look. "You let her get in."

Ah, yes, that. He had, actually.

"Maybe my security was a little lax that day."

Reese smiled crookedly. "Maybe. You gave her a second chance, another life. Like me."

"She isn't like you, John."

He smiled more. "I hope not."

"For one, you don't deliberately destroy perfectly good hardware."

Yes, that was still a sore spot, a point of discussion, and one where Shaw was unrelenting.

"So I'm special," Reese teased, lips curling into a smile. A very warm smile.

It got him a look. "I hardly put out for anyone."

Now he laughed. "You never 'put out', Harold."

"Well, I hope not."

They sat close together, not touching, and still there was a connection between them that didn't require physical contact. Finch regarded his partner, noticed the ever-present tension, but there was an ease there that told him how relaxed Reese was compared to when he was on an active mission.

No, he had never actively pursued the attraction to Reese. He had never actively wanted to change what they had, afraid it would all backfire. Reese had made the first step. Or maybe it had been the second or third.

Shaw wasn't the same as John. She was an asset and he needed her to handle the numbers. She was a capable agent, deadly, quick on her feet, as ruthless as Reese, and with a grudge that carried her through the missions. She had already thawed a little and she was actively looking for cases, which told Finch more than anything that she liked working as a free agent – paid by him.

Snow… Snow was an unknown factor that he would have to keep an eye on. So far he hadn't caused trouble, but the fact remained that he was unstable. He had lost everything and he was driven by that loss.

"I'll keep an eye on him," Reese said, eyes on their surroundings.

"You won't be the only one."

It got Finch a smile that was barely more than a curl of lips in one corner of Reese's mouth.

"Any plans?" his partner asked.

"I have a lunch date."

Reese didn't comment. Harold rose and gave him a pointed look.

They walked to the diner in companionable silence. Reese simply took his place across from Finch, chose a sandwich combo, and Harold quietly enjoyed their time together.

Like he always did; like he had always done.

It was easy. Comfortable… and so very much them.

tbc...


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn't really hard to find Snow again. The man had made no discernible effort to hide. Actually, he was very much out in the open now after the not-so-incidental meeting outside the downtown office building.

Like an invitation.

To resume their game.

And Reese had watched him for three consecutive days, alternating his surveillance with Shaw. He knew where he stayed - small apartment, rented fully furnished; no other place this time – and he knew he had no job to speak of. Snow usually spent the day walking around the city, sitting and watching people, having a sandwich and coffee, and then more walking.

He didn't meet them face to face, nor did he really look at his watchers. Snow was aware of them, but the confrontation of before had been an exception, it seemed.

Shaw knew everything there was on the man and still she looked undecided as to what to make of the lone alpha patrolling New York City. And yes, it was patrolling. Always the same route. A few alternate ways for kicks. Always the same time.

He was starting a routine.

It intrigued her to no end.

Reese didn't comment.

"You ran with his pack," she told Reese as they stood at the Hudson, watching the water, the skyline of New York a nice background panorama. "He was your team leader. Doesn't mean you know werewolf pack mentality."

He didn't react, just shot her a brief look.

She grimaced.

"Wolves are complicated pack animals, Reese. You're a born loner who needs a handler to be effective. Wolves don't. They need a strong alpha. It makes them such an effective team, but they fail at being functional on their own for too long. The CIA took a huge risk including werewolf teams in their operations and maybe it worked for you, but you see what happened. Do you really believe Snow would willingly, voluntarily, kill off his beta?"

"Probably."

"Wrong. The beta is the most trusted. He is the stand-in for the alpha. For him to agree that Stanton had to be taken care of, something must have happened. Alphas are very strong, but they rely on the pack, the team, to keep that strength. He told you, someone who isn't even a werewolf, to kill his beta."

"He was told we were compromised."

"Yes. By whom?"

His eyes were cold, distant. "Alicia Corwin."

"Who is conveniently dead. Who did she work for?"

Reese stared out over the water. "Someone we still have to find out about."

Shaw nodded slowly. "You were manipulated. As was Stanton. As was Snow. Everyone involved. Me, my team, my handler, my partner. It's a big game and we're pawns."

Disdain was clearly audible in her voice. Shaw had believed in what she had done until the day her partner had been killed because of what he had discovered. Her survival was thanks to Finch and Reese. As was he continued active involvement.

"You were supposed to be dead. Like Stanton. You were suddenly back, like Stanton. All Snow did was follow orders again. I think he finally cut those ties, Reese."

"So you think we should trust him?" he challenged.

Shaw laughed humorlessly. "No."

Reese cocked an eyebrow.

"I'll keep tailing him," she simply said. "I know wolves inside out. He might have seen me, but he won't see me again. He's alone, Reese. It will either kill him or drive him into doing something very rash that probably ends with his death, too. Alphas can't exist on their own."

"Are you suggesting we adopt strays?" he teased.

Shaw grimaced, then turned to look at the skyline again. "Who knows? He might turn out to be an asset after all."

Reese doubted it.

Shaw's smile turned darker. "At least he would be an expendable one that doesn't care about whether he dies or not."

Reese's lips reflected a dark smile. It was simply the truth. Having Snow around might just make his day one day after all, Shaw mused.

And right now it gave her an interesting puzzle to solve.

And a game to play on her own.

Sam Shaw knew that a lone alpha was not to be underestimated. Snow was walking a fine line between desperation and determination. No pack, living on the edge, on the fringe of it all. But he wanted to live, which showed in his progressively more consistent lifestyle.

She would keep a very close eye on him.

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Finch was busy coding whatever it was he was coding and Reese watched him silently for a while. He knew his partner was a genius programmer, hacker, software engineer and so much more. He knew the man had bought and sold companies within the blink of an eye, had ruined people with a mouse click, and he had more money than Reese was able to grasp.

And still, just standing in the old, abandoned library, watching Finch work, showed Reese more than any snooping into the files had ever done.

"Are you going to stand there all day, Mr. Reese, or has this visit a productive reason?"

He smiled. Finch turned a little, eyes bright behind the glasses. John pushed away from the wall and sauntered over, fingers briefly brushing over Finch's neck.

It was something he had started doing more often, more openly, now that they had finally grown more comfortable with what they were. His thumb caressed the short hair at the neck, then he dropped his hand.

"New number?" he asked casually.

"I would have called you if something had come up. You seem restless."

"It has been very quiet recently."

"I can't control the numbers, nor The Machine."

Reese itched to touch his partner again, to feel the warm skin, and he bit back that notion. Control was of utmost importance, even within the privacy of this room, which wasn't that private at all. Shaw came and went as she pleased, and she was as good as Reese.

"I did, however, place new surveillance on Mr. Snow."

Reese raised his eyebrows. Finch looked rather smug.

"It's just a little program I was experimenting with. It's not yet perfect, but it allows me to follow a target with reasonable accuracy."

"Wherever he goes?"

"Right now it's limited to New York."

"The city?"

"The state, Mr. Reese."

Reese smirked a little. Little program? Finch was starting to get creative again and his mind was razor sharp and devious.

"It can only track one person and it takes up a lot of computing power," the cipher went on. "A downside to it all. I'm working on making it more streamlined and effective."

"Everyone needs a hobby, Harold."

"We can't all lurk in shadows and shoot kneecaps, Mr. Reese."

"No, we can't," he said, voice low and teasing. "Some of us live out their voyeuristic tendencies in a different way."

Finch twisted around a little more, an affronted expression crossing his features. Reese chuckled softly, squeezing one shoulder.

"So, any interesting movements?"

"No. I'm keeping very close eyes on everything concerning Snow, credit cards, debit, movement through the city. It looks rather random, sometimes eccentric."

"He was a good agent."

"Out of your mouth, high praise."

He had to grudgingly agree. He had respected the man who had been his team leader. Snow was till good and he wouldn't be easily followed. He also knew that electronic trails could be followed, though he had no idea about The Machine.

"I also took the liberty of looking into his CIA files again. It seems he was classified as 'defunct'. That seems to be the intelligence term for an agent that wouldn't be activated even under the most dire of circumstances."

"He was sorted out of the system," the hellhound agreed. "The CIA wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole, nor would anyone else."

"Not even Black Ops?"

"Especially not Black Ops or Intelligence."

"His files have been blackened," Finch added. "And there isn't even a search result for his name when I run it through the CIA mainframe."

"Hacking the CIA? Finch, I'm shocked."

"Not so much," the cipher added smoothly. "And they shouldn't use such outdated software when something better is on the market."

"Yours?"

The blue eyes lit up with a smirk and Reese grinned.

"Not that it would really stop me from getting in, seeing that I know how my own backdoors work, but it would stop more unsavory characters."

Reese found himself caressing Finch's neck again. "As opposed to the savory characters we are."

"Exactly. But as I was saying, Mr. Snow has been removed. As has been everything and everyone on his former team. All of them, including you. Not my doing, by the way. Someone scrubbed them out of the intelligence service and dumped him."

"Too bad," Reese rumbled, not feeling sorry at all.

Finch turned completely, dislodging the fingers on his neck. "I know you don't approve of Mr. Snow and I can hardly fault you for that. He has caused a lot of pain and I'm personally not in favor of getting any closer than we absolutely have to. All I'm say is that I doubt this is a complicated ploy to find you, Mr. Reese. I believe it is a desperate attempt to have a purpose."

Reese stared at the screen that showed him his former team leader's face.

"We need to be careful in handling new numbers, just in case," Finch added as he rose, drawing John's attention to himself.

There was a faint ring of silver around the blue eyes of the hellhound.

"I will let Detectives Carter and Fusco know about our… guest. I highly doubt Snow would come close to either, but they might run into him nonetheless."

"If he crosses my path, I won't hold back, Finch," Reese said, voice gritty.

"I would never ask you to anyway, John."

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Shaw had made it her new hobby to keep a close eye on the alpha werewolf, except when Finch had a new number for her to handle. The Machine was giving them mostly one or two, sometimes more, which meant Carter and Fusco had their share of work. Finch handled them all in his usual manner. Calm, collected, slightly worried, sometimes with a little snark Shaw enjoyed, and a quiet intelligence she found very much appealing. She had gone through several handlers already and while Finch had never been trained by any kind of intelligence operation or agency, he was very, very good.

She trusted his intel, she trusted his information, and she had started to trust him.

That had come as a shock.

And now she had indirectly, without actually telling him, volunteered to follow Snow around.

It was… entertaining. Far from boring, actually. And it kept her sharp, on her toes, ready to disappear quite literally if she had to.

The man couldn't hide the wolf in him and she doubted her wanted. Not anymore. The CIA had trained him to be human on the outside, to keep the edge hidden, to only let go if the situation required it.

Shaw knew werewolves and she pitied those who had let themselves be recruited to work in agency packs. It crippled them, made them unfit for anything else, and she had yet to hear of one who had reached retirement age.

Werewolves were pack animals; they didn't retire. The pack was family and stability.

So for Snow to still function as he did, not going feral or selling his considerable talents on the open market, there had to be some honor left. Alphas were about the only ones who could run without family support for a while, but even they would reach their limits. They didn't lose alpha status and they wouldn't simply usurp another pack, but that was what made it so difficult for them to survive without a handler. A beta didn't have that problem. Neither did non-military trained wolves. There were loners out there, with weak family ties that were enough stability for them not to flip or fall into a depression.

Snow wasn't like them.

He needed something to focus on or he would simply break.

Shaw didn't really want to be around when that limit caught up with Snow, though she knew she would be.

It was one reason she was watching; to hopefully stave off a meltdown.

For now, the former intelligence operative followed him and she was amused by the fact that Snow knew and tried to catch her unawares, sneaking up on her in turn, only to find her gone.

Hide and seek.

Now and then she went to higher ground as he caught up to her last known position, nostrils flaring as if to catch her scent. If he was frustrated, Snow didn't show. If Shaw was elated by the thrill, she never so much as twitched a smile.

It was becoming an entertaining way to pass the time.

tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

Mark Snow had never considered himself to be old, though at forty-four he was at an age where agents were slowly taken out of the field, placed in management positions, turned into handlers, rarely went out on more delicate assignments. With fifty, most considered a desk job a blessing.

As a supernatural creature he had a few assets that humans didn't have. Even in ten years time he would still be faster and stronger and a considerable asset compared to a human of the same age. His reflexes were as sharp as anyone's and his instincts were right on track.

Which made what had happened to him even more painful than to most. The loss sat deep, had opened a dark hole inside him that he still hadn't crawled out of, and the mere thought of the team he had lost, his pack, had him reach for the bottle.

But he refused to fall back into the bliss of alcohol and narcotics. He had been through that and it hadn't helped; if at all, it had made everything even worse.

So the bottle only contained tap water.

And it tasted stale enough for him to stop after the first gulp.

He knew there were places to help supernaturals like him, but he hadn't even gone close to a therapist. The CIA had dropped him like he was a contagious disease. No one at the agency so much as looked at him. The only one who had actually tried to help him was Tom White, an alpha himself, with a complete and functional pack, and the very one who, together with Reese, had freed him from his own beta's claws.

He had declined the help.

He didn't need it.

And pride came before the fall.

Snow had fallen hard.

Coming back to New York, turning his back on Washington, he had tried to make a new life, but it was painful. He needed something to do, something the wolf side of him would be happy with, that fulfilled them both.

Of course, approaching Reese's handler had been a gamble and he had known straight away that it wouldn't be easy. What had surprised him was the additional asset the man had apparently acquired and who had followed Snow around for days now.

It had become a game and he had tried to catch the woman at it.

Snow had to grudgingly give it to her, she was good. Whenever he believed he had her trapped, she was gone without a trace and hardly a scent to linger, or to follow. She probably knew who and what he was, and she had taken measures to control how close he could get.

In turn, the new asset was staking him out at every turn and losing her in the crowds and bustle was another challenge that got his blood going, had him hunting for her as she hunted for him, and it made him feel alive.

The game was thrilling. The game was what got him out of bed in the morning and had his mind working on all cylinders. She was a challenging hunter and prey in one, and it felt good to just follow his old instincts.

No rules.

No restrictions.

No leash.

She upped the ante one day as she set him a trap that had Snow locked in a room for a good hour until he had broken the lock. He had laughed and enjoyed his entrapment, looking forward to what else she would try. He knew he was being tested, just like he was assessing her as well, and he would get closer to her.

Four weeks into their game his instincts had never been better, his senses working on a higher level than even back in the CIA. There had been a few days when she had been absent, when he had barely seen her shadow anywhere, and Snow suspected she had been out working for the handler.

But she would come back.

That he caught her in an alley was a surprise to both of them and the blow to his chin stunned him for a moment, the shock of the attack quickly ignored.

Yes, she was good if she knew how to land a blow on a werewolf, and she was even better when she actually got away.

She wasn't a wolf, he mused after that, even if she moved like one, fought like one.

The second confrontation was two days later and it left them both breathing hard. Snow let the alpha rise, regarded the very human woman with glowing eyes and a smile that showed a lot of fang, and she smirked at him in return.

Smirked!

There was not an ounce of fear in her stance, in her smell.

He wondered if he should shift completely and take her down.

"Try me," she said softly.

He laughed at that, a reply he hadn't expected. She was good.

"You're not a shape-shifter."

"No."

He lunged at her, but she was fast, faster than she should be as a human, and Snow skidded a little, nearly colliding with a bunch of old crates. Claws scraped over stone and he felt the itch grow. He wanted to shift completely, wanted to let the wolf out and… play.

He bared his teeth, anticipation running through him.

"You're still not in touch with yourself," she remarked.

That had his instinctual side take offense and he shot forward, claws catching her coat, but she twisted, did something with her legs, then a hard kick winded him. Another blow to the back had him on his knees, but Snow didn't stay down.

It was on.

Shaw danced out of the way, blocking his blows, doling out her own, catching him a few times where it hurt. She staggered a little under the hits he landed, but she was tougher than she looked. Smaller than him, human, fragile, prey.

Prey.

His animal brain howled.

And the wolf tore out of his human disguise.

It was a down and dirty fight between a half-shifted supernatural and someone he suspected had been trained to handle shifters like him. Snow got a few good blows in, drew blood, but he had to evade her sharp, painful retaliation in turn.

But no human, however good, was a match for a werewolf. Especially one trained by the CIA. Especially an alpha. One who had nothing to lose anymore. Snow still kept a tight leash on the final shift, refusing to give in to the instinct clamoring in the back of his brain, because it would mean loss of control.

When he finally had her on the ground, blood on his hands, blood on her hands, clothes torn and shredded in places, he underestimated her a final time. It showed in the sharp pain of a knife sliding into his side, staying there, blood running down her fingers. Her right hand was under his chin, fingers digging into his skin, leaving even more marks.

Snow grinned, showing fangs.

She grinned back, all teeth very human.

"Call it a draw," he growled.

The knife twisted a little and he winced. It wasn't too deeply embedded, just this side of dangerous, and he would easily heal from it. It was a reminder of his carelessness, though.

"Like I said, you're getting better, but the CIA trained everything right out of you."

"And you're trying to get it back?"

She smirked.

"Why?"

"I'd rather have a wolf around this city than a lapdog without a purpose. John told me you might not be easy to get rid of, aside from the permanent solution. I'd rather have the wolf than the dog."

He chuckled. "You have experience."

She pushed at his chin and Snow moved back, careful and cautious and aware of the knife.

"More than you apparently have."

He moved off her, the knife sliding out of the wound and he winced again. She sat up, graceful and sleek and lithe, something he had noticed before. This was more than CIA training, or wherever else she had been trained. This was born and bred, not learned.

"You're one of them," he murmured, shifting back to his more human appearance.

She cocked an eyebrow, a hot challenge in her eyes. Snow smirked at her.

"One of those who ran with wolves, grew up in a pack, right? Human, but still not human." He tilted his head a little, taking in her blank expression. "The odd birth here or there where the genes gave you everything but the shifting abilities? You have the instinct and the body, limited by the human side. Fast, strong, agile, but without the benefits of the wolf."

She hadn't been bitten, he thought. She wasn't one of those who had survived a bite and it had never taken. She was probably a child born to werewolf parents, all human, and still not really human. It happened. There was no telling how a preter- or supernatural heritage presented itself and when.

She rose, wiping the knife and sliding it back into the sheath. Then she turned to go.

"I never caught your name," Snow called after her.

She didn't turn, didn't stop, but the answer was still heard. "Shaw."

And then she was gone.

Snow sat in the grubby alley, bleeding, bruised, beaten by a human wolf, and he had never felt better.

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He had been thinking about this for a while now. Between numbers. Throughout the day when he was debugging a program, clearing server space, looking for information. Or at night when he hadn't slept.

Finch knew he could do it. And he was terrified of going back to what had been the beginning of writing the program that had developed into The Machine. He had been in a haze back then, zoned, always coding programming, unable to really tell day from night, Monday from Friday, or anything else. Nathan had been there, forcing him to take breaks, to eat, to sleep, to drink. Only when the basic code had been done had Harold stopped on his own.

Nathan had been… disturbed by what he had seen his friend do. He hadn't understood Harold's endless lines of code, the complexities of what he had created, and he had been awed. As well as terrified by the potential.

There had been acceptance, too. The acceptance that no one in the world would probably be able to do what Finch had done. The acceptance that Harold was a preternatural – and had never told Nathan about it. Nor would he ever say it out loud.

And if Nathan had suspected what his role in the whole scheme of things had been, he had never mentioned it.

Since finishing the programming, Finch had never gone back, dropped all his shields, immersed himself in the code. Since Nathan had died, the world had changed for him completely anyway. Nothing was as it had once been. His temporary connector had been killed, Harold himself had barely survived, and he had picked up the pieces, taken on a new identity, and he had turned to helping people; saving irrelevant numbers.

Now he had a new connector; a solid, firm, ever-present anchor. He had never felt better, more protected, more aware of his abilities, and still he shied away from that last step.

Q had told him what it was like to face The Machine. It had terrified and elated Finch in one.

"Deep thoughts?" a deep voice rumbled softly.

Finch glanced at the figure who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, silent and deadly in every move he made. As always Reese was wearing his black suit, the white shirt, no tie. Despite the fact that he saw the man dressed like that on an every-day basis Harold would never get tired of admiring the long, lean lines, the quiet grace and barely concealed danger.

John brushed his fingers over Finch's neck, that calming gesture that spoke more than any words ever would. Finch wanted to close his eyes, lean into the touch, enjoy the contact. There had been not enough of that lately and he really missed it.

Finch nearly laughed at his own thoughts, those weird, new cravings. He missed physical contact…

"Pondering, Mr. Reese," he answered, pulling himself together. No time to give in to his personal desires.

"Anything I can help with?"

Reese rested one hip against the sturdy desk, all attention on Harold now.

"No. Not at the moment." He smiled a little. "I'll let you know when your… assistance is required."

Those intense, blue eyes seemed to look straight past his shields, right into his very soul, then Reese simply nodded. He leaned down and the kiss, while no more than a fleeting contact, was as intimate as the earlier caress had been.

"Good."

And then he was gone.

Harold smiled to himself. John knew exactly what was going through his mind. He didn't need the connection they shared for that. The offer had been loud and clear, the man very much aware what role he played for the cipher, and giving him the breathing space he needed was simply another gesture on his part.

One day, Harold promised himself. When he could be sure that they would come out of this alive. He would let himself sink into The Machine, look at his creation and touch it, and he would anchor himself in his partner.

Trusting in John to keep him grounded.

Hoping that the hellhound would be enough to pull him out should something go wrong.

He couldn't risk himself like that right now. If something happened to him, it would happen to John as well. It would kill the hellhound to lose his own anchor, the man he had bound himself to for life.

Harold wouldn't let that happen.

Ever.

So he would wait, would work on his abilities, and hope that The Machine wouldn't overwhelm and ultimately kill him.

x X XX xx X XX

That night Harold was at Reese's loft. It had been an unconscious decision to not go to one of the many places he had to choose from. He didn't want to be alone. Part of him felt cold and cringed at the very idea.

Finch sighed and limped over to the door. He had been fine on his own until John Reese. He had been self-sufficient, and still was, and he had been… well, alone. Employing Mr. Reese's considerable talents had breached that loneliness, had taken away a few shields, and Reese had been nothing if not persistent in his pursuit to discover who his elusive employer was.

The door was open.

Finch wasn't fooled in believing that Reese had been careless.

He had known.

A small smile crossed his features. Of course he had known.

"Harold."

John's voice. Smooth and silky, dark and deep. The faint rasp, those emotions wrapped in one word. His name.

His partner only smiled at him, still in his 'uniform', though without the suit jacket, and Harold enjoyed the view.

"Mr. Reese. I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

Reese's smile widened and something warm rushed through the cipher. He limped over to the couch and dropped off his coat. When he turned, John was right behind him, blue eyes dark and deep.

There was no hesitation, no awkwardness

They had gone past that a while ago.

The kiss was gentle. Soft. With an underlying hint of hunger.

Finch closed the last distance between them and wrapped an arm around the narrow waist. It wasn't so much to take the weight off his leg, more to touch more of Reese, more of his partner.

The longing was growing.

His own need to this kind of physical reassurance.

The hellhound's rumble came from deep within and John's hands buried underneath Finch's suit jacket. The kisses grew more intense, more needy, more wanting, and they were slowly moving toward the bed.

Finch's jacket landed on a chair. The vest came next. Reese's fingers were nimble and swift and easily opened buttons and zippers.

"John…"

The mattress underneath him was soft, the sheets cool and fresh.

Reese knelt over him, keeping his weight off the injured hip and leg. The blue eyes had a faint, silver sheen, and the way the hellhound was looking at him, Harold felt like he was the most desirable person in the world to him.

John bent down, lips brushing over his lips, his chin, down his neck, leaving a faint bite mark near his clavicle, and Harold's hands roamed freely over the naked skin within his reach. He encountered the bumps and ridges of the various scars, knowing all of them intimately. Some of the injuries he had treated himself, others he had explored at length in the past. While John healed faster, he scarred like anyone else.

The silver was increasing in the blue eyes, the hellhound rising.

Reese slowly made his way down Finch's body, kissing, touching, arousing and calming in one.

Harold groaned when his partner finally swallowed him, eyes closed, hips twitching.

It was over embarrassingly fast.

Mostly because John knew some very dirty tricks and used them all. The grin he got, the flick of a wet tongue over reddened lips, it spoke of a mission achieved.

They slid together, Harold's hand finding the hard evidence of his hellhound's arousal, and by the way those deep eyes dilated, he was close. It didn't take very long, a few twists, the slide of Harold's thumb over the leaking head, and John exhaled harshly as he came.

Finch played with the short hair, smiling at the expression in John's face. Relaxed. Trusting. At ease.

The blue eyes opened and John's smile was warm and private and very intimate.

"I love you," the hellhound murmured.

Harold felt that warmth in him, that sensation of something he had never felt before, or something connecting him to this very special man. It was a bond, an anchor, and so much more. It was more than a hellhound who had chosen a mate, who had bound himself for life to someone as damaged as Finch.

It was… so much more.

John nuzzled against his chin, against his neck, one arm slung over the cipher's waist.

"John," he murmured.

"I know."

And it was enough. Them. Together. It was enough.

In here, there was nothing and no one else. There was no new number, there was no crime, no punishment, and there was no Mark Snow.

Everything was beyond the walls that were Reese's home. And for now, it wasn't important.

tbc...


	6. Chapter 6

"Who is he?"

Shaw's expression had Snow smile a little, even before she muttered a "Really?"

"It's a valid question, Shaw."

"He's the one reason you're still breathing."

Snow raised an eyebrow. "He didn't kill Stanton."

"No. Another pack alpha did. And he wasn't there at the site."

"But he was there."

She shrugged. "I only read the file."

"Hacked and stolen," he surmised.

Shaw smirked.

"So why do I owe him my life then?"

"Because if not for him, Reese would already have torn your throat out."

Snow chuckled and leaned back, enjoying the wind coming in from the sea. It wasn't very warm, but the cold had been chased away by now. Summer was coming.

He felt better than in months; almost a year. The bone-deep weariness was gone, the pain no longer gnawing at his very soul, and the need to numb everything had lessened. He wasn't back to living yet, but he was past the point of surviving hour for hour.

"I would never have believed it, if I hadn't seen it, that he would give away his soul to another human being."

Shaw frowned.

"We are pack animals," Snow elaborated. "You and I. We thrive only as a pack. Don't deny it. I know there's enough wolf in you."

She didn't twitch a single expression.

"But he's a loner. They all are. Hellhounds are perfect assassins, snipers, lonely killers. Packs are bothersome for them. Now he found something almost like a pack and he… thrives. Enough to forge a loyalty bond. Enough to take a mate."

Her brows rose a fraction.

"I know he's not a wolf, Shaw," Snow muttered. "Harold's not a mate. But he's a bonded. He has power."

"He had that before."

"You respect him. You like him as your handler."

She shrugged. "He has the most interesting missions."

He laughed. Openly, freely laughed.

It was the most relaxed he had felt ever since White's pack had pulled him out of that warehouse. He wouldn't trust Shaw further than he could kick her ass, which wasn't very far at all, and she looked like she could disembowel him at the drop of a hat. And she would.

Her loyalty was with her new handler and John.

Curious.

But Snow understood and he remained where he was, at the outside, the fringe, an asset for her to use.

It was what he needed: to be useful. He couldn't switch off what he had been for so long. He needed a purpose and it reminded him sharply of Reese. It reminded him that his former team member had found that – and he hadn't understood. He might never understand completely, but he had an inkling as to what the hellhound had gone through. Even a loner could be alone, feel lonely, need someone.

Shaw had dragged his ass along on some interesting missions, though he had no idea where she got her intel from. He simply acted and reacted, and he had been there to assist in taking down a local gang.

It had been thrilling.

Even if he had gotten shot in the leg for his troubles. Good thing werewolves healed a little faster than humans.

Shaw's expression at his injury had been disappointment mixed with scolding anger.

"You need to learn a lot," had been her only comment and she had walked away.

Yes, he had to. Shed what he had been before, stop pretending he was still Agent Mark Snow, alpha of a pack. That pain would be the last to be locked away. The wounds had scarred, but the scabs kept itching and he was scratching that itch in the most uncomfortable way.

Shaw was starting to walk away, only briefly glancing at him. Snow waited, then got up, feeling a faint ache from the healing wound. He didn't limp, but he also wasn't moving at his normal, smooth pace.

"Made up your mind yet?" he asked after a while, hands pushed into his jacket's pockets.

She gave him an unreadable look.

He returned it.

"Jury's still out."

"You really think I'd turn on you?"

"In a heartbeat."

He laughed. "You were trained too well."

Shaw smirked. They walked in silence for a while. Snow looked around the park, over the river, followed the path of dog walkers and joggers. It was habit. He didn't want to break it either.

"What would I gain?" he finally challenged her.

She shrugged. "How would I know? I'm not your shrink. I just kick your ass."

"To gain what?"

"An asset."

"To use and discard?"

The smirk was back. "My choice," she reminded him.

Snow had to give her that: she was honest. He could work with that.

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She knew Reese was furious, though he had himself under perfect control. His face was a mask, the eyes steely, and there wasn't a trace of a temper flare.

Shaw found it commendable.

She doubted this was Finch's influence. There was only so much a handler could do, even if the handler was bound to the asset. Hellhounds were vicious and had a better killer instinct than werewolves. It was their biggest advantage when it came to being assassins. The downside was the protective instinct that could flare at the most inopportune moments and the loyalty they could develop to a person.

Right now, she only saw John Reese and the man wasn't pleased.

"He's an asset, Reese," Shaw said evenly. "Like your corrupt pet detective."

The dark brows lowered, the features sharpening a little.

"He sold you out before. As did your other detective. So don't get started on how I handle Snow."

"Handle, Ms. Shaw?" Finch asked mildly.

He had kept out of the staring match, wisely silent, and only now called attention to himself.

"He's self-destructive. You and I know it," Shaw said calmly. "Without anyone to kick his ass, he'll crawl into a bottle and pull the trigger one day. I intend to keep an asset like him alive until I need him." Her smile was sharp and dark. "If he wants to live out his suicidal tendencies on a mission, so be it. Some good can still come out of the whole mess."

Finch looked mildly perturbed, but Reese appeared more impressed than anything else.

"What if he turns on you?"

"You really have no idea about werewolves, do you, Reese?" she challenged. "I thought you were in a pack."

"Fringe."

"Whatever. You interacted with them. With him. And yet you know nothing."

"He won't imprint on you, Ms. Shaw."

She grinned, feeling true amusement. "He's hardly a puppy, Finch. He's an alpha and I know how to break their bones and crack their noses. You have your contacts and assets, I have mine. Don't get in my way."

"What a lovely picture you paint," Finch muttered, but there was a twitch of his lips that told Shaw he was still very much amused.

"Are you quite sure?" Finch once again asked her.

She met his concerned gaze. Yes, concern.

For her.

It was a novel concept for someone who had been nothing but an asset her whole life.

Harold Finch might not agree wither methods, her style, her general behavior, but she brought back results. And she knew how to survive. Shaw was aware that this man wasn't like all her past handlers; she had seen it with Reese.

Finch was different.

Finch cared.

Another novel concept.

"I am."

He regarded her silently, face carefully blank, but he couldn't disguise all he was thinking. His eyes were tell-tale.

"I can handle him," Shaw added, almost as if to reassure him.

"If anyone can, it would be you."

She tilted her head, surprised. Pleasantly surprised.

Finch's lips curled into a brief smile.

"I'm not paying him though."

She laughed wryly. "I doubt he would expect that. Or even take it."

"And I expect his consideration of a cell phone runs along your lines, Ms. Shaw."

She grinned wolfishly. Finch had yet to understand that while she was working for him, she wasn't his. At least not like Reese had been right from the start. He was different; they were completely different from one another, aside from the fact that both were trained killers and former operatives. She didn't have the preternatural inclination to protect, like the hellhound.

Reese didn't say a word and Shaw simply took her leave, scratching Bear between the ears as she walked past the Malinois. Next time she would bring him a treat.

x X XX x

Finch watched her go, then glanced at Reese. His partner looked rather… unhappy. Well, that was hardly a good description for it. But 'livid' would require more of an emotional reaction, too. Right now the hellhound was reining in everything, was controlling every twitch, and his shields were up.

"She has a point, Mr. Reese," the cipher finally said.

The blue eyes glared at him, the only concession to Reese's emotional upheaval.

"Mr. Snow is an asset and he might be useful. I don't advocate bringing him in, nor would I recommend you two meeting right now, but if Ms. Shaw sees fit to cultivate him as an asset, we can hardly stop her."

Reese's smile was small, dark and sinister.

"Aside from taking a life, yes, Mr. Reese, I am aware of that. I don't approve of random killings, as you well know."

"It wouldn't be random, Finch," was the low drawl.

Finch gave him an exasperated look. "Please show some restraint. We have more important things to deal with."

"New number?"

"Actually, not so new. We do know him."

Reese rolled his eyes. "Please, not Leon…"

Finch smiled. "Speaking of assets…"

Reese groaned. "Leon."

Harold gave him a long-suffering look. "Mr. Tao has a talent to get himself into trouble; continuously. And speaking of assets, we better take care of this one, Mr. Reese."

Reese smirked. "On it, Mr. Finch." He leaned in close. "He's nothing but an asset. To be used."

Harold cupped the smooth shaven cheek. "Hers to use. I trust her instincts, John. Like I trust yours."

The hellhound just looked at him and Finch smiled slightly.

"You haven't killed him yet. You had ample opportunity. I highly doubt it happened due to our relationship. I know you can disappear people, Mr. Reese. Mr. Snow does so, too."

"He will disappear if he steps out of line."

"I have no doubt about it. Like I don't doubt that Ms. Shaw will be the first one to act."

John grinned and closed the distance, their lips meeting briefly.

"The number," Finch said softly.

"On it," was the reply.

And then he was gone, heading for the last known location of their new old number.

tbc...


	7. Chapter 7

Warning! Spoilers for episode 2 of the third season in this chapter and the next!

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He knew he would never have a pack again, never be able to trust a beta, or another wolf of another pack. He would never be able to rely on anyone but himself.

Mark Snow was a scarred, damaged being, surviving by sheer stubbornness and willpower, clinging to his new life with a ferocity that even surprised himself.

Shaw had no small part in that. She was as tenacious as a wolf and just as dangerous; maybe even more so because she was human.

Snow didn't trust her, though. He couldn't allow himself that luxury ever again. Well, at least not now. The wounds were still there, open and barely healing, and even though Shaw wasn't a werewolf, she was a potential enemy.

Still, he had put his life in her hands. A human wolf, as damaged as he was, though in a different way. And someone who kicked his ass into not giving up on life.

She wasn't pack, she wasn't a beta, she wasn't even anything his vocabulary knew, but the supernatural in him accepted her.

Mark Snow respected her.

Her and that strange pack-like not-pack she was a part of. A pack with an unlikely alpha. A human, a preternatural with no alpha vibes, who was a handler and not really a leader. Someone they all turned to and who protected them as fiercely as Snow had protected his own.

_No, you didn't_, a nasty voice whispered. _You didn't protect them to the very end. You sent Kara to die. You sent a pack member to die. _

Snow leaned against the alley wall and tipped back his head, looking at the strip of sky above. The bustle of the streets echoed around him, but he didn't really listen to it.

He had done the worst an alpha could do and he had paid; all of them had paid for his mistake.

Finch, as strange an alpha as he was, had never left his operative to die. Snow knew of the lengths the man had gone and it was astounding. Physically, he wasn't even an opponent to take seriously. Mentally was a different matter. And considering his resources, the things he had done, what he still did, the man was a mystery and a serious player in a bigger game.

He had the loyalty of a hellhound. And a human wolf. And Detective Joss Carter. Snow knew there were probably more people, but the man wasn't alone. And he was definitely in command.

It was something Snow would never have again: pack, trust, the comfort of knowledge that someone would have his back. But he would hold on to what he had now. It wasn't the same as before. It wasn't something his wolf felt comfortable with either.

Be an asset, be of use. Or just… die.

His only choices.

He shook his head and pushed away from the wall, strolling along the alley and crossing to another street.

He was patrolling. Patrolling felt good. It wasn't something he had done all too often before. It was one of the many instincts that had been trained out of him by the Agency. So much was coming back, his senses awakening by the training he did himself and the rather straight-forward, no nonsense training of Shaw.

Snow tilted his head a little as he stopped at an intersection, almost smiling when his hearing picked up all the little whispers and murmurs that he hadn't listened to before. His sight was sharper, his sense of smell better. Of course, New York wasn't a place he wanted to have enhanced smell or hearing due to the noise pollution, not to mention the garbage, but it was… so much better.

He was so much better.

He should really write Shaw a thank you card. If he gave her flowers she would probably kill him with them.

The supernatural smirked.

Snow got himself a coffee and was about to turn toward Central Park when he picked up something he had noticed on and off before.

He was being watched.

Not Shaw.

His wolf was getting better at detecting those belonging to the not-pack. It was like the more primal side of him had simply chosen to integrate them into his understanding of what and who he was now. An alpha who was part of something, who he wasn't the leader of. He was a loner, like Reese, like Shaw, like Finch, and still they formed the not-pack, with him at the fringe as Shaw's asset.

His new world.

Oh well.

He sipped at the coffee.

Time to pay his respects.

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Numbers came and went. They successfully kept people from dying or killing other people.

Snow wasn't forgotten, but he kept a low profile. Reese sometimes caught a flash of him somewhere, like an afterthought, a scent, a trace of an alpha werewolf, but there was no active encounter.

When there wasn't a number, Reese tried to track his former alpha and pack leader down.

Keeping an eye on him.

A close eye.

"You must be bored out of your mind."

Reese's eyes tracked the movement in the area, but his attention was fully on the man behind him.

"Not particularly."

Snow moved soundlessly next to him. He was in a suit, as usual. He looked… slightly healthier than before. More alive.

"Not getting tired, are you, John?"

He gave the werewolf a bland look.

Snow chuckled. "No, you wouldn't."

"You think Shaw is your ticket in?"

"I think Ms. Shaw is a very formidable asset who can make her own decisions."

Reese's smile was cold. "You might want to remember that before you make your decisions."

The alpha grinned, the bright humor almost disturbing. "I already made my decision, John. You just have to make yours. I didn't contact your… mate to stir up trouble."

The flare of silver was more tell-tale than any threatening move and Reese knew he had momentarily lost control. Enough to give Snow a clue or two.

Instead of a smirk or a silent threat, there was suddenly a small, almost wistful smile on the wolf's face.

"You found a second chance, John. And a mate. I'm not looking to take either from you."

Reese stared at him, eyes narrowed. His hands clenched a little. The threat was rolling off him in waves.

Snow raised his hands. "I'm not going to hurt him."

It was clear who 'him' was.

"Then leave," Reese growled.

"I can't."

"This isn't your territory, Snow!"

"No. It's yours."

"You're an alpha. You won't accept anyone else to lead a pack."

"A pack, John?" Snow teased mildly.

"What do you want, Mark? What do you really want?"

"Nothing you or your mate can give me," was the slow answer.

"And Shaw?"

"She is a distraction, a way to alleviate the pain. She is good at what she does. Very good."

With that he walked past him.

Reese watched him with a mild frown.

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"Enjoying yourself?" Shaw asked when he not so accidentally ran into her two blocks down the opposite direction from Snow.

Reese raised an eyebrow at her, sipping at his coffee.

"You?" he asked neutrally.

"Immensely," was the level reply.

"How's your asset management coming along, Shaw?" He glanced at her.

"It's an on-going project."

Reese's lips curled into a tiny smile and headed to the restaurant Finch had made them a lunch reservation.

Things were quiet, almost back to normal, with a sprinkle of Shaw in their daily operations to make things interesting. Snow was a thought that never left his mind, but his instincts had calmed down somewhat. The man was a threat, but not an immediate threat to Harold, which had been and still was his primary concern.

That changed in October.

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She slid into the room, gun drawn, taking in the situation in a heartbeat.

Kruger was down. Two gunshot wounds. One fatal. To the head.

"I got him," she told Finch.

Reese on the floor, trying to get up, failing.

No one else was there.

There was a soft gasp from Reese as he tried to push himself to his feet, one arm curled protectively around his abdomen. Shaw saw the hole in the back of his suit jacket where the bullet had ripped into him.

"Can you walk?"

She knew he had worn a vest, but it hadn't stopped the projectile from most likely breaking his rib. From the pain reflected in his face, it had at least fractured it, but the break was more likely.

Without hesitation she pushed a shoulder underneath Reese's, pulling him up.

"I need to get to Collier," he gasped, teeth grit.

"We gotta get you out of here," Shaw contradicted.

"She's right, Mr. Reese," Finch sounded in their ear pieces. His voice was calm, level, but Shaw wasn't a trained assassin for nothing. She heard the fine notion of stress. "Another time."

Reese limped, trying to take as much of his weight as possible. His eyes were half-closed, but Shaw didn't doubt that he was aware of where they were going and what was happening around them.

Getting the taller man into the car elicited a sharp exhalation from him and the lines fo pain deepened. Broken ribs were a bitch and this one had been broken from a hard blow to the back. Shaw knew hellhounds like werewolves were fast healers, but even they needed time.

Right now she had to get him somewhere safe to take care of the rib.

"Where are you going?" Reese asked.

"Library."

"No."

She shot him a narrow-eyed look but continued on her way.

"Shaw," he snarled.

"Ms. Shaw is correct. The library is the safest place for her to treat you injuries," Finch said evenly.

"What about you?" Reese demanded.

Shaw almost rolled her eyes. Protectors. Hellhounds were foremost protectors and right now, because of the pain and because Finch had been hurt, too, Reese wasn't thinking straight.

"I'm fine, Mr. Reese. I'll join you shortly."

The snarl was a lot more inhuman now and Shaw glanced at her colleague. There was a glint to the blue eyes that was downright eerie and one she had never really seen before up close, even in the most dangerous of situations. Reese was letting the hellhound slip through.

He was losing control.

He was cracking, fraying at the edges.

"Finch…"

"As a matter of fact," the cipher continued, ignoring Reese's interruption, "I'm already on my way."

Reese sat up, hissing as the pain flared up again, and he almost curled forward. His arm tightened around the weak side.

"You are aware that I can call upon a driver, Mr. Reese?" Finch chastised.

Shaw smirked a little at Reese's dark look, deftly maneuvering through the traffic. At his glare she gave him a pointed look.

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He slipped into the room, the smell of blood and death powerful and fresh. His eyes glowed a faint yellowish-orange as he prowled through the twilight, stopping at the body.

Execution.

Lips pulled back over still human teeth.

Snow had followed Shaw, had lost her, had picked up her trail again, and he had unwillingly become involved in whatever their mission had been. Snow had yet to really understand what Reese was doing for Finch, what Shaw's role was.

Right now he understood that death had happened.

He disappeared before the cops came, blending in with the shadows, watching until the body was wheeled away.

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Wrapping Reese's ribs was a quick and efficient maneuver for Shaw. She had experience in all kinds of medical matters and various injuries in the field. She had had to treat herself often enough, right down to removing bullets from her flesh.

Reese simply sat there, face a mask, the lines of pain still present, his breathing shallow.

Finch limped in just as she was taping the tight bandages in place, and Shaw gave him a quick once-over.

The man looked too pale for her liking and she saw signs of a concussion, though probably only a mild one. He had come up here under his own power. His limp was a little more pronounced, his body language stiff and speaking of the headache.

She moved almost silently over to him, making just enough noise not to startle him. Normally she liked to sneak up on him, test his reflexes, and Finch had barely ever shown his surprise when she had suddenly appeared. He was good at hiding those reactions. He had good masks.

"I'm perfectly fine, Ms. Shaw," he now said dismissively.

"Bashed over the head with a vase is not fine, Finch. Let me look."

He turned, his eyes meeting hers in a startlingly steady way. "I do not require assistance."

Shaw stayed where she was, still analyzing, still watching, then she stepped back a little. She didn't need to turn around to know where John Reese was. His presence was there, almost physical, and she gave Harold a smirk.

"Finch," the quiet voice of the other ex-operative broke the silence.

Finch transferred his steady dismissal onto Reese, who wasn't fazed either.

Shaw moved into the background, a shadow, a watcher. The relationship between the two so very different men was something she was fascinated by, something she had yet to understand, but she knew that Reese had bound himself to this man, that Harold Finch meant that much to the hellhound, and that was enough.

With a tiny curl of her lips she silently left the library.

Let Reese deal with the stubborn billionaire. Her part of the job was done.

tbc...


	8. Chapter 8

Reese didn't need supernatural senses to see that Finch was hurting. Headache from the blow and the resulting bruise. There was also the faint smell of blood, so the skin had been broken, and the scent of antiseptic Harold had used on his injury. And the pain. Finch's skin was paler than usual. His gait had shown that his leg and neck hadn't taken the abuse kindly.

He needed rest.

He needed something for the pain.

Reese's own injuries were second to those of his partner and he pushed back the discomfort and deep ache.

John closed the distance, intense, fierce, feeling a number of emotions that clamored for attention, but he wouldn't let them out. His eyes were only on Harold and Finch blinked slowly, looking mesmerized and slightly out of it without even trying to be.

"Harold."

Finch looked at him.

x X XX x

He couldn't take his eyes off the taller man, the white bandage in stark contrast over the tanned skin. Reese's shirt hung open, giving him a clear view of a body he had seen in all states of dress and undress already. It wasn't that John had been hurt the first time since they had started out on this venture. Or since they had become more than mere colleagues.

Or that it would be the last time.

Harold knew he could count himself lucky that he didn't have to see blood this time. The vest had protected John's skin from harm, but not his rib.

Still, he felt… off. It was simply… everything. The remnants of the blow to his own head, the pain he had heard in John's voice, the sight of the bandages. If not for the vest, the hellhound might be dead. He would have been a lot more seriously injured at least.

"Harold."

Reese's voice was soft, as always, a deep rumble, a murmur, barely even there but still so clear. He felt it inside and out without John touching him, and he responded in a way he had so often before. It was almost instinctual.

And then the hellhound leaned his head against Finch's, temple against temple, inhaling softly. Harold's hands hung at his side, fingers trembling, unable to touch. He knew John as hurting, that his touch would hurt him, too, but he wanted to touch. He wanted…

"Harold, it's okay."

He curled an arm loosely around Finch's waist.

"It isn't."

Not the number. Not what had happened. Nothing was okay. They had gone into this with information missing and while it hadn't been the first time, this case had nearly cost him John.

Because he hadn't seen the one in the shadows.

He hadn't seen the truth behind the whole game. They had treated this like a straightforward case and it had gone off in their faces. They had been caught off guard.

The Machine saw everything.

It hadn't seen that.

Neither had its creator. Harold had had all the data at his fingertips, but he hadn't been fast enough. In the end, it had been a matter of seconds.

It irked him.

"It's not the first time," Reese murmured, lips moving against Finch's skin.

No, it wasn't. In so many ways.

Finch's right hand finally clenched in the loose shirt as John rubbed his nose and lips against the soft skin of Harold's temple. The low-key rumble coming from deep within his chest was strangely reassuring. Finch closed his eyes, feeling the tension bleed out of his frame, and he started to sway a little.

He held on tighter to Reese.

The attack had rattled him.

Him. The man who had been kidnapped by Root - twice.

He hadn't seen that coming either. No one had.

Reese and Shaw had left him with Bear as a guard, neither of the two operatives believing that Kruger would become violent.

But he had.

And they had been so wrong in so many ways.

John's lips graced his temple, then brushed over his brow. He curled his arm more tightly around Finch and Harold stiffened.

"I'm okay," Reese murmured, reading his reaction correctly. "But you need to lie down."

Indignation rose inside the cipher, even though sleep sounded divine at the moment. Reese gave a little breath of laughter. It reflected his own exhaustion and pain.

"Harold."

"Not here," he said immediately, stepping back a little.

Reese let him, the embrace loosening without letting go of his partner. The blue eyes were still incredibly intense and there was a fine sheen of silver that spoke of the supernatural side coming through.

"My place," the hellhound said.

It wasn't open for discussion. John's place. The loft. A place he felt confident he could protect Harold.

Finch was aware of all of it. He had learned a lot about hellhounds in the past year and if there was one thing Reese needed right now, it was a safe haven. His loft.

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Finch's driver dropped them off near the entrance and Reese hovered close to Finch until they were inside. He held himself carefully, but there was a determination there, the unbroken intensity, that told Finch that should anything threaten him, Reese would spring into action with no regard to his own pain.

By now Finch felt the stress of the day, his exhaustion weighing him down, intensifying the discomfort from his hip and leg, not to mention his neck. He held himself stiffly and even almost flinched when John touched his lower back.

The hellhound rumbled softly, sounding almost distressed, and Finch didn't fight the gentle pressure that guided him to the bed in the middle of the large room.

"John," Finch started.

"It's okay," his partner repeated, peeling the suit jacket off Finch.

He let him.

And he let him open the vest.

Both items were draped over the chair, then Reese's jacket followed. Finch saw him suppress a wince.

"Mr. Reese," he tried again, holding the silvery-blue gaze. "This isn't a good idea."

The reply was a slow smile, briefly taking the pain and the exhaustion away, and Reese leaned in close. His fingers ghosted over Harold's shirt, making him shiver a little.

"Please."

There it was again, that plea.

"I want you close."

And nothing but the truth in the four words.

"Your rib…"

"Can take it."

"Mr. Reese."

The kiss was light, just barely a brush of lips against lips. "Please."

The need was palpable now.

So Finch gave in.

Reese moved slowly, careful of the broken rib, and Finch did the same. They slid together, with no intention of this leading to any kind of closeness but the one needed to reassure each other. It was so much of their relationship right there, in a nutshell. It was them right down to the very core. There was no pushing, no pulling, no demands. This was them being comfortable with each other. This was the trust between them.

"Harold."

His name again. Softly spoken.

"I'm here," he murmured.

And he always would be.

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She drove into her target with a single-mindedness that would have scared lesser men. Actually, it would have scared men like himself, supernaturals and preternaturals alike, and his wolf side was both intrigued and slightly cowed.

Shaw wasn't to be underestimated or trifled with. She wasn't someone to have as an enemy and she would have to be watched closely even as an ally. Lest you end up with a knife between your ribs.

Mark Snow could speak from experience.

Evading a hard kick that would have cracked his skull if he was human, he danced back, grinning as she followed up the kick with several strikes that got intensely close.

The dark eyes burned with her heritage. She might not be a shapeshifter, but she was of supernatural origin. It was clear in every line of her body, in her movements, her grace and deadliness. She would have been a great addition to his old pack, human or supernatural. It wouldn't have mattered.

Shaw's next attack had him flat on his back, gasping for air, with a cracked rib for his troubles.

"You think too much," she said evenly, barely out of breath.

Snow chuckled. "Touché." The alpha got up and tilted his head. "Bad case?" he asked, moving nimbly out of her reach.

Their 'training' had already shown effect. He was more in tune with his true nature, he trusted his instincts, relied on his wolf, and he felt so much more alive. His physical fitness had improved, too.

Shaw nearly caught him again with a scissoring move, smiling her approval as he dodged that, too. At least her lips smiled; the rest of her face was a passive, deadly mask.

"Who died?" Snow asked.

Another blow.

"Ah. The protégé."

This time she caught him, throwing him over her shoulder. It was close to dislocating his own. He rolled with it, getting to his feet and rotating his aching joint. He flashed fangs at her.

The dead man had been the one they had wanted to save; they had failed.

Shaw looked decidedly unimpressed by him; as usual.

"How is John?" Snow asked casually, flexing his fingers.

Shaw studied him, cocking her head slightly as if he was a new, interesting bug to be studied.

"Why the curiosity?" she asked evenly.

"I'm always curious."

"Curiosity not only kills cats, Snow."

He spread his arms wide. "You wouldn't just eliminate such an asset after the hard work you put into it, right?"

He barely caught the move as Shaw pulled out a gun and fired. He felt the bullet wing him, tearing a hot trail across his right bicep.

"Ouch," he remarked.

His healing would take care of that, but it still stung. It had also ruined a perfectly good sweater. The blood might be washed out, but stitching a bullet hole wasn't high up on his list.

"I would," she only stated.

Ah, very bad case. Not only had their chosen protégé died, something else had happened that had rattled even a woman like Shaw. John he would understand. The man was a hellhound and empathetic when he wanted to be. He was a protector and losing the one assigned to him was a blow.

Something had gone wrong with this mission and she was feeling it.

Shaw put away the gun and walked over to where her bag sat next to an old, dusty bench shoved against the crumbling wall of the dilapidated warehouse that was their gym. She pulled out her jacket and a bottle.

Snow came over, slow and careful, easily catching the bottle she tossed him. She was still a dangerous woman, even if their official training was over, and he didn't lower his guard just yet.

"Part of the job," he told her evenly. "Win some, lose some."

Shaw gave him a hard look, dark and filled with a warning not to continue in that direction.

So Snow didn't. He was too much in tune with his primal instincts by now and they told him to back off.

She left without another word and Snow smiled slightly to himself. It was always the same. And just like always he gave her a head start, then followed.

Just another kind of training, using his senses, all of them, to try and tail her.

x X XX x

And just like all the times before, Samantha Shaw managed to lose him.

Yes, she was a fascinating woman, the alpha decided as he stopped his pursuit and headed for a food truck.

She would let him know if she needed his skills for whatever it was she was doing at the time. Until then he would patrol his new territory, like he always did.

tbc...


	9. Chapter 9

It was actually a surprise to meet Harold Finch once again, to get an invitation.

This time on Finch's terms.

Snow looked around the small family diner, then slid into the booth where the unassuming man in the dark blue, three-piece suit was finishing a rather tasty looking chicken steak with beans and a baked potato. He met the cool eyes with a neutral expression of his own.

"Mr. Snow, thank you for meeting with me," Finch said politely.

Snow almost snorted. His smile was similarly polite but without humor. "I was… surprised to hear from you again, actually. I'm even more surprised that your protector isn't around."

"Mr. Reese isn't my protector, Mr. Snow."

"Only your asset?" he taunted.

A waitress appeared and he ordered coffee and a toasted cheese panini.

Finch folded his napkin and placed it on his empty plate. His face was still very neutral.

"I have been following Ms. Shaw's… endeavors with interest."

He raised an eyebrow.

"She seems convinced you are useful."

"Apparently. She hasn't killed me yet."

Finch's lips quirked into a smile. "Always a good sign, I agree."

"I'd say so." Snow tilted his head. "What does John think?"

"That I should allow him to neutralize a potential threat," was the straight-forward answer.

Snow decided then and there that he really liked Harold Finch. The man didn't hold back.

"You haven't sanctioned it so far."

"Nor will I allow a cold-blooded murder. I'm not that kind of person, Mr. Snow. I see you are useful and I agree with Ms. Shaw that allowing you to run without a handler would be catastrophic. For you and for everyone else."

He chuckled. "You are a good Samaritan then. How nice."

"It's far from that. I see it from a practical point of view. You have abilities, Mr. Snow. It would be a mistake on my part to underestimate your value and to cast away such potential. You are not unlike Mr. Reese, though I wouldn't compare you, nor would I call you the same."

"I can be useful," Snow translated.

"Ms. Shaw's assessment of you is something I have come to agree with, even though trusting you is not something I will do right now."

"Understandable."

"Do you, Mr. Snow?"

Finch studied him, those too knowing eyes seeing more than Snow as comfortable with. He had no idea where Finch got his intel from, but he was good; scarily so.

"I doubt you trusted John when you first… hired him, Mr. Finch. I severely doubt you gave him more than the bare necessities of what you expected him to do until he had proven his trustworthiness. And even then you never let him too close. Working with someone like you do, it creates a bond over time."

Snow knew what he was talking about. It was how he had operated and still did. It also made sense. Those two had been working together for years now, ending up in a partnership born from the ultimate trust a hellhound could give. John wouldn't do this lightly, nor with anyone he didn't fully accept, respect and utterly trust his life with. The bond was a once in a lifetime thing for a hellhound.

"I did an extensive background check on Mr. Reese," Finch agreed. "As I did one on you. You would have qualified for what I needed John for back then, though being an alpha without a pack would have made me cautious. You might not have made the final three."

Snow nodded. Even now, months after losing them all, it hurt. It was a dark, dark place, filled with failure and pain and self-hatred. He was learning to compartmentalize in a different way now, but it was hard.

"Why did you ask me here?" he wanted to know.

"To offer you an opportunity."

"To do what?"

"Return to your former job, to be an agent again."

Snow smiled humorlessly. "No."

Finch looked mildly curious now. "The CIA has worked with the supernatural for a lot longer than you have been with this particular agency, Mr. Snow. They have handled cases like yours before."

"I know that."

"An alpha can create a new pack."

"Not this one."

A small smile. "Every alpha can, even one as damaged by a broken trust as you."

"You seem to have a lot of faith in my abilities, Mr. Finch."

"You are a werewolf. Your instincts guide your behavior. Instinctually you want a pack, even if your human, more logical side, denies you that benefit. You have suffered a betrayal that cost you your beta, who then killed your pack in revenge."

Snow felt something dark inside him unfurl, snarling at the memories of that. He knew where and when he had gone wrong. Now he did. Back then he had been a good little doggie. He had followed orders without questioning them, even when those orders had been to kill his beta.

"You are an old alpha, Mr. Snow, a very strong one. I realize you wouldn't be able to submit to another to function within a pack. And werewolves don't work with alpha pairs."

"So?"

"I could get you back into the CIA, with a new team, with people who understand."

"The very people who told me to sacrifice my beta? Who gave me a handler who betrayed my trust? Who managed the impossible? She told a seasoned alpha that his beta had switched sides, that she had been compromised, and then had set up the ill? I trusted my handler, Mr. Finch, not my beta, my pack or my instincts. I started all of this."

"And you ended it."

"John and you and the White pack did." He felt almost angry again.

"If not the CIA, there are other possibilities. Some overseas."

"Where?" Snow queried, brows drawing down.

"The CIA is currently the only larger agency with werewolf packs, but MI6 has super- and preternatural operatives."

He smiled darkly. "No, thank you."

Finch tilted his head. "It would give you a purpose."

"It would give me a new handler telling me what to do on a government pay grade. It would require me to trust, Mr. Finch. I no longer trust anyone." He bared his teeth in a terrible smile.

The older man studied him silently.

The panini came and Snow started eating. The food was surprisingly good. The waitress refilled his coffee cup and disappeared again.

"Due to the animalistic tendencies and the pack mentality of werewolves, rarely an agency employs your kind as field agents. Lone wolves tend to be unpredictable and don't react well to handlers."

It sounded like a report recital. Finch looked almost intrigued by what he was telling Snow.

Packs weren't a viable form of agents unless they had strong alphas and a very capable handler. Until the whole fiasco, Snow had believed himself to be such a strong alpha, that he could trust his handler implicitly.

"A lone wolf, a lone alpha, is a dangerous creature, Mr. Snow. Especially one who has undergone the trauma you went through, the betrayal and near-death. You refused psychological help."

"I have what I need."

"Ms. Shaw seems to know what she is doing, though I don't agree it is what you need."

It was more than he deserved, Snow sometimes thought. He should be dead and rotting in a shallow grave.

"Regaining myself," he said softly. "Regaining what was trained out of me. Werewolves are pack animals, but we can survive on our own."

"Not forever. Nor is Ms. Shaw a viable pack replacement."

No, not her alone.

He shrugged.

"She calls you an asset, Mr. Snow," Finch continued. "I want to believe in her judgment."

"Do you?"

"You are an asset I agree is manageable in certain situations."

"But you don't trust me."

Finch met his gaze unflinchingly. "No."

"Good for you. I'm not looking for a job or a handler."

"I am not applying for that position," was the mild rebuke. "I have set up my agents with a basic funding system," Finch told him. "Ms. Shaw has been given an additional… credit line."

Snow blinked. That… had come out of the left field.

"You will have access to a safe place, a fund to provide yourself the necessary things in life, and this." Finch pushed a smartphone across the table.

Snow wiped his hands and raised his eyebrows. He picked up phone.

"Please do not destroy it, Mr. Snow."

"You can track me anyway," he commented.

Finch's expression was neutral, but it said everything anyway.

"Why?" Snow asked.

"As I said, I agree with Ms. Shaw that you are an asset. I understand what has happened to you and I understand what it did to you. I understand that you only did your job, even if that job involved trying to kill someone I work with."

_Someone you are mated to_, Snow thought. _Someone you care about._

He didn't say it out loud, but he suspected that Finch knew what he was thinking.

Snow respected that. As a werewolf he understood and respected the bond between mates, even if a hellhound wasn't like a werewolf. No need of a pack, for one. And the mate, the partner for life, wasn't found like wolves found theirs. Reese had life-bonded himself and that was more tell-tale than anything he had seen the other man do so far.

"I would like to think that we are past that," Finch continued, folding his hands on the table, giving him a slightly quizzical look.

"I would like to think so, too."

"It is also in my interest to keep you on an even keel. A steady income and the reassurance of a safe haven to return to is vital for that."

"What do you want in return?"

The smile was neutral. "Nothing, Mr. Snow. You are Ms. Shaw's asset, not mine."

He chuckled. It sounded almost… dirty. Like he was a dog on a leash. He wasn't. She was making sure of that.

Finch pulled out a few notes and left them on the table. He picked up his coat and rose.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Snow."

Polite, distant, and very, very powerful. Snow noticed that the money on the table easily covered his own meal, including sizable tip.

And then he was gone, limping out of the diner and disappearing into the crowds.

Snow didn't attempt to follow him. He gazed out the window and almost laughed when he discovered the tall, silent watcher. Reese's face was expressionless, but there was a fierce warning in his eyes.

The wolf gave him a small nod, then emptied his coffee and left the diner as well.

Reese was gone by the time he looked at the last place he had seen him.

His grin reflected his own entertainment.

X X X

On top of a light pole, a camera watched the lone alpha, a red light pulsing gently.

tbc...


	10. Chapter 10

I decided to go with the show, but with a few changes (Root doesn't appear, Carter remained a detective. This is an AU after all J).

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The day Reese didn't shatter but cracked was the day Detective Joss Carter was killed in front of his eyes, at his side.

It was the day he was unable to protect someone he cared for.

It was the day someone stripped away his humanity and the hellhound broke through, hunting down those responsible.

Every. Single. One.

Relentlessly.

Bloodily.

Single-minded and intense, the bond straining between him and his cipher that it nearly tore in some places.

It was the day Finch witnessed what lurked behind the human façade, what it looked like unleashed, and it frightened him. Not the creature, the hellhound, but the thought what John would do if that body one day might turn out to be Finch himself.

He knew the hellhound would tear everything apart, go up against whoever got in his way, and then kill himself in the process of taking revenge.

He had nearly done it today.

Eyes burning with the intense power that lay inside his soul, the supernatural creature taking over, John had been so very close to killing Quinn.

"_Mr. Reese. You know what Joss sacrificed to bring this man down on her terms. Legal terms."_

_The tension had been like a living, breathing thing, high-strung between them, twisting sharply, the bond flaring._

_Finch had never been so much aware of what connected them until that moment. He was holding everything in his hands. He could unleash a terrible force or he could tame and calm and gentle it, let the case end on their terms._

_On Detective Carter's._

_Reese, pale as a sheet, his face so much sharper than a human's every could be, the eyes pure silver by the time Finch had reached him, just stared at his prey over the gun he was pointing at Carter's killer._

"_You heard everything."_

_The voice was beyond human. Flat, cold, the predator about to deliver the killing blow._

_And there had been so much blood. _

"_So if you're going to kill Mr. Quinn, don't imagine that you're doing this in her name."_

_His voice was still so even, Finch had no idea where he took the strength from, where he took the control from. He was only aware of how much depended on this._

"_That's not what she would have wanted."_

"_They shouldn't have killed her in the first place."_

_Reese's legs gave out, but his aim was unwavering. It was sheer, stubborn determination._

"_It's not our purpose," Harold cajoled. "We save lives. You save lives."_

_He knelt next to his partner, hands touching, willing John to listen, to hear him, to understand him._

"_Not all of them," he breathed._

"_You're dying, John."_

_I will die. We are dying. You can't do this to me, to us. Don't do this!_

_He didn't say it, but he knew the hellhound heard him. His silvery eyes never left Quinn, but there was a little hitch in his breathing, a stuttering exhalation. _

"_Let us help you."_

_And he reached for the hand holding the gun, blood dripping down it in a soundless pattern. _

"_Let me help you," Harold begged. "Please. Don't do this to us. Me." His voice dropped so low, only his partner's ears could pick him up. "Don't. I need you to live, John."_

_All of a sudden it was as if all his remaining strength flowed out of him and John sank into himself. _

"_That's it," Fusco rumbled. "Let's get him out of here."_

_Harold held on to him, physically as well as though their connection, refusing to let go, to leave him alone._

Looking at the silent, unconscious form, aware of the damage the bullets had done, the danger Reese was in from the blood loss, he wordlessly curled his fingers around the pale, cold fingers.

He still saw the feverish expression in the too pale face, the red-rimmed eyes burning brightly blue, the silver overlaying the intense color and turning those eyes into something beyond human and supernatural. Harold still felt the blood on his hands, warm and sticky and John's. He still felt the pulses deep within his very soul, the bond, the connection between him and his partner, and he knew that he had been very, very close to losing everything.

Not just John.

Himself. Everything between them.

Harold knew that should this have happened, should John not survive the massive injuries, he wouldn't last very long. The hole inside him had already started to take its toll and he was recovering as much as John was healing himself.

Shaw had left them alone. She was still around, but not in the same room. She might not be capable of compassion as a normal human being might be able to, but there had been something in her eyes, the way she had acted, and Finch knew she understood his, their, needs.

It was over.

And still so many loose ends.

He couldn't bring himself to care. He couldn't get up and go to a computer to handle whatever fallout and consequences had arisen. He had to trust in others to do that for him.

Like Fusco.

And Shaw.

Maybe even Snow.

Holding the cool hand, Harold willed the other man to heal, to recover. Hellhounds were resilient and tenacious and Reese would get through this.

Finch only hoped that he wouldn't come back broken. Cracked he could handle. They were all damaged one way or the other. This time, though, with Carter's murder, things were different.

For all of them.

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She had been… an asset. Someone he had relied on, someone who had come to him for information, and someone he had respected. Jocelyn Carter had been a good cop, a dedicated officer of the law, and she had held his respects, yes.

Elias operated on that respect, on honor, on quid pro quo and an eye for an eye.

He had liked her.

He really had.

Like he liked Harold and John.

They all commanded his respect for how they operated, what they had done, even if it had ended with his imprisonment. It had been a time of learning for him. And he had learned willingly.

Now Carter was dead and that had created a small, dark place of fury. Elias wouldn't have thought she had wormed herself that deeply into his flesh, but she had. Carter had saved him, he had owed her, and despite the fact that she had used him like a CI, he knew he would never have been able to repay her completely.

Taking out the trash who had killed her in cold blood had been a first step.

It was then that he discovered that he wasn't the only one who had taken matters into his own hands.

X X X X

Right now he looked at a wolf standing over a dead body. One of the last to be hunted. One of the scum bags who had first gone after John, then helped Simmons in his assassination of Carter.

Everyone in HR had been involved in that, no matter if they had pulled the trigger or not.

Everyone was guilty.

Every. Single. One.

Elias wasn't a man to fall into the habit of going on a killing spree. There were others who had done that for him. When he had heard about Carter, though, he had been close to ignoring his own principles. He was old school, like Joss had been. She had paid.

Now her killers had paid their own dues.

They had all been taken care of. Those who had gone into hiding had been flushed out. Those who had openly confronted their executioners hadn't survived.

Vengeful angels had raged through the underground of New York City, taking out those who had hunted Reese, who had killed Carter in the end. HR or the Russian mob or just crooks who had been loyal to either, it hadn't mattered.

People had started to disappear, some missed, some not.

Elias had heard the fearful whispers and he had smiled.

It hadn't been his doing.

No bodies had ever been found. There had been traces of blood, but nothing else.

John had friends. And he was a formidable opponent all on his own. Elias knew that Reese had been injured, that he had been seen bleeding and weak, but he didn't doubt his survival. The man was hard to keep down.

Elias had personally handled Simmons. It had been an honor, his duty, his way to repaying another debt owed to a woman who hadn't deserved to be gunned down like that.

And someone else had cleaned up the rest of the garbage.

Now he knew at least one of those avenging creatures.

A werewolf.

And it wasn't John. John Reese wasn't a werewolf. He was sure of that.

"Was she one?" he wondered out loud.

The wolf was impressive. Male, fully shifted, an alpha if he was any judge of it. Elias knew enough about these supernatural creatures. They all could shapeshift, but only a rare few managed a full body shift into their alternate form. Still, they never looked like a normal wolf. Something was off. It gave them away, made it unable for a werewolf to pass himself off as a normal wolf.

Size was one thing. This one was huge. He had a sleek look, the legs a bit longer than a normal wolves, the paws unlike a dog's; they seemed more flexible. His dark gray fur was streaked with a faint silver. His muzzle was bloodied, like his paws and chest. The teeth were long, sharp and impressive, currently bared at him in a warning. The eyes glowed a golden yellow, deep and intense, and Elias knew a wrong word or a wrong gesture might get him killed.

"No, she wasn't one," Elias answered his own question. "She had character traits, though. And she was one of the few left." He tilted his head. "She was civilized until the end."

Werewolves were very enduring, healed fast, and could take a lot more punishment than a human. Carter would have survived the bullets had she been a werewolf. They were the most common supernaturals and numerous. The wolf was dominant among the different kinds of shifters all over the world.

Elias's eyes fell on the savaged form of the last high-ranking HR operative, dead at the wolf's claws and fangs, his face still frozen in a mask of utter terror. His limbs showed multiple bite wounds.

A hunt where the predator had played with the prey.

"You're not him. You're not John."

The wolf flicked one ear, still warning him off, still ready to kill him, too. Elias had no doubt he wouldn't be able to shoot him. And werewolves didn't really go down easily. One shot wouldn't stop him. Maybe not even a whole magazine.

No, this one wasn't John, but just as dangerous.

"You knew her?"

No answer.

"Could she have been saved by a bite?"

A werewolf was born as a wolf. If someone was bitten, it didn't mean a turn. It was rare and it had to be an alpha of age. And even then it might just be a bite infection, some fever, and nothing else.

The wolf rumbled.

"No, possibly not. And she wouldn't have wanted to live as an animal. She was an independent, strong woman. I'm going to leave now," he said calmly. "It's done."

The rumble was low, dark, almost a growl.

Elias smiled and walked away.

"Clean up," he only called, smiling to himself. "Wouldn't want to have anyone call a Hunter and chase your pelt."

It got him an amused snort.

The wolf didn't follow.

Elias strolled down the street, smiling to himself.

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Snow couldn't say why he had let himself get drawn in this deeply, but by now it was too late to untangle himself from the not-pack. He was part of it and still not completely.

Like all of them.

He had let instinct take over, he had let the wolf go on a hunt and he had enjoyed it.

Take out the trash. All of them.

It had been savagely pleasing to hear them scream and beg until he had silenced them.

They had threatened his not-pack.

They had killed an ally and friend of his not-pack.

They had paid.

Snow had no doubt that the empty spaces HR and the Russians had left would be filled soon. Elias, for example, had been biding his time, waiting for an opening, and he would rise.

The alpha couldn't care less right now.

Reese was recovering and while Shaw had made herself scarce, drawing closer to Reese and Finch to protect them, Snow had seen her now and then.

He didn't mind the waiting, the patrolling, letting the criminal element know that anyone still looking for the Man in the Suit would be taken care of quickly and efficiently.

Reese was hands off.

X X X X

He found her on the roof of a building, a place where she had led him on a chase before – and had disappeared. Snow was impressed by her cunning and abilities.

She looked no different than all the times before, but he could read the still simmering fury.

So the alpha joined her wordlessly, looking out over New York, feeling slightly more at ease knowing the not-pack was still mostly intact. Carter had been a formidable woman, someone he had respected and started to like. She had had guts and grit and honor. She had been a worthy opponent in his search for Reese, and a valuable ally and friend for John.

It would be hard for the hellhound to cope with the loss; John would see it as his failure to protect. It was his weakness.

Snow felt a streak of protectiveness. He couldn't bury the alpha instincts, the pack-not-like-pack feelings.

He was becoming too close.

And he didn't feel like pulling away.

Shaw's eyes were suddenly on him, gaze narrowed, lips thinning. Then she snorted an almost-laugh.

"Instincts are a bitch," she remarked.

"You told me to listen to mine more. I did."

"And got it out of your system? I should be proud. You finally let yourself be the wolf. In control, but the wolf."

"Felt good," he confessed.

"John won't appreciate it."

"I didn't do it for him."

She smiled humorlessly. "Right. Like I said, Snow: instincts are a bitch. He was part of your pack. They hurt pack." He raised her eyebrows. "They almost killed the last of your former team. It's an instinctive reaction. It's coming back." She grinned more. "You can fight it, but the wolf knows. You did this, even if he'd rather see you dead."

Nothing but the truth indeed. John was his only connection back to his past, to his old team.

Shaw's dark eyes were filled with a knowing light and there was a brief, soft smile crossing her lips.

"Good work," she only said, then turned away from the view and walked back into the building.

Snow chuckled.

Like all the times before, he didn't follow. He pushed his hands into his pockets, nostrils flaring, taking in the scents in the air, listening to the sounds all around him.

tbc...


	11. Chapter 11

I think this fic is one of the few that takes ages for me to finish. I blame the mountains of work and long hours I have to put in. As of January I hope matters quiet down. My usual beta is likewise drowned in work, so you have to live with the unedited version :)  
Apologies that this isn't done yet, but it's getting there!

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Hellhounds healed fast, but even they couldn't counter blood loss and multiple gunshot wounds within a few days. Then there was the psychological trauma, the loss of a friend and trusted ally. The loss of a woman who had been more than a tool to be used. Carter had left a mark, a heritage, and Reese was only slowly coming to terms with her death.

He was too empathic to just shrug it off, to turn his back on the events and go on as if nothing had happened.

Finch knew that.

Reese should know that.

It didn't stop him from being driven and obstinate and generally making everything so much harder.

Until Harold finally snapped and pushed the pale man wobbling around the library into a chair, wincing slightly himself as Reese's pain flared in his eyes. John's arm automatically curled around his mid-section and he looked a little gray around the edges.

"You're not well!" Finch told his partner, voice sharp and commanding and just this side of angry. "No one is! You, me, Shaw, Bear, Fusco… No one, John! And no one but yourself pushes himself like this! You are not the only one and never will be! Do you understand?"

The blue eyes were intense, darker than before, but no silver ring around the iris.

"Do you understand what this did to me?" Finch went on, hating the tremor in his voice. "Do you know what it does to you? To feel that connection unravel slowly? To feel every single strand strain under the pressure and then tear? Do you?!" he demanded.

"Harold…"

"You are not well, Mr. Reese. You need to recover," he said, frantically gathering his shields around him. "I need you to recover! No number in the world will make me send you out now. There are others. Not you. Do you understand?"

"Like Snow?" was the cold question.

"Like Shaw and Fusco. If she chooses so, even Mr. Snow. I have options. They have options. You don't. This stops here and now, understood?"

Reese nodded slowly, still so pale and drawn looking, cheekbones sharper than normal, his usually smooth shaven face showing a two day stubble.

Finch felt himself exhale slowly, trying to gather his wits, his shields, his control. His hands were trembling a little and his mind was in turmoil.

He couldn't watch John go on like this, drive himself to the brink of a complete breakdown once again. He had nearly died in his need for revenge, leaving bodies and pain and death in his wake.

It was time to stop.

They needed to heal… all of them!

John held out a hand.

Harold hesitated for a moment, but the silent plea had him take it. He let himself be drawn slowly closer.

"She was my friend, too," he said calmly, voice surprisingly steady as he looked at the supernatural.

He didn't feel calm at all.

"I feel her loss. I don't want to feel yours, too."

There was a violent tremor running through the tall form.

"You are not to blame, John. No one is. You know that. Detective Carter would tell you so herself."

The blue eyes filled with the immense pain the other man was feeling. It was threatening to break him, tear his soul to pieces.

"Sorry," John suddenly said, voice rough, raspy, like he hadn't used it in a while.

One hand still held Finch's, the other palm was placed flat against his chest. He seemed to be concentrating on the other man's heartbeat, his breathing, every little twitch. Harold willed himself to be calm, even, everything the supernatural needed. It was hard, but it had to be him. Reese was too far gone in his pain.

"Sorry," the hellhound repeated.

Harold closed his eyes, then carded his free hand in the spiky strands of hair and Reese rested his head right next to his palm, his eyes closing. Finch let his fingers scratch lightly over the scalp, then slide down to caress the hard tendons of John's neck.

Reese's whole being seemed to relax, the tension flowing away, and Finch let him wrap an arm around his waist, hold him tight, face buried in his vest.

This would take time to heal. Longer than the physical wounds. John Reese wasn't a man to let go of guilt. Harold knew that intimately. He had seen the man almost destroy himself over the violent death of his former girlfriend. Jessica's death had been the beginning of the end.

Finch had saved him back then. He hadn't known if it would work out, if Reese was the man he could trust with the numbers, but it had worked. It had become more than a mere working relationship. It had been a partnership, a friendship and finally… finally a bond initiated by the hellhound that connected them more intimately than anything Finch had ever experienced before.

_I'll be there_, he promised silently. _Always. I'll always come for you._

Reese's soft exhalation was answer enough.

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John spent the night, as all the nights before after he had declared himself mobile – which he really wasn't, in Finch's opinion – at Harold's current home. He was stretched out on the bed, asleep, while Finch was reading.

It had become so normal.

He would still be there in the morning, either already awake or just waking up as Harold woke, and he would be closer, touching, seeking physical reassurance.

Harold gave it freely, voluntarily, and he would listen to the barely audible noises coming from his partner as he caressed him, stroked over his head, kissed him softly.

A slow start into a new day, filled with helping John heal, helping him recover his physical and mental strength, and trying to get back into working their numbers. So far, Shaw hadn't complained about being the only operative and Finch knew she was using Fusco as help when needed.

And Snow.

There was no doubt in his mind that the alpha was out there, an asset to Shaw, and she was handling him.

Just like Finch had no doubt in Snow's involvement in the unsolved deaths of three Russian mobsters and two HR operatives. No bodies had been found, just a few flecks of blood. No trace of an attack, no sign of violence other than the blood, and their homes had been left undisturbed.

Mark Snow had been thorough; meticulous.

Since Shaw wasn't someone to order a kill – she would do it herself – Finch had to believe it had all been Snow by himself. She wouldn't have let him run alone if she had proposed the killings. She would have been there, taking care of matters herself. As much as she saw him as her asset, her weapon to be used, she wouldn't stand back and reply solely on the werewolf.

But why? Harold mused. Had Carter inspired this much loyalty in a man she had only ever professionally worked with?

He might never know.

Right now he also didn't care.

John's stubbled cheek rubbed over his bare stomach, the t-shirt hitched up for the hellhound to kiss and caress the skin he wanted. Harold tugged lightly at the graying strands and John rose, slowly, careful of his healing wounds, and kissed him.

This was all they needed right now. It was all Harold was ready to do.

_I need you_, he thought, aware that Reese would understand it, read it in every line of his body, in his very eyes. _I need you so much and I won't let you go._

John's smile was warm, intimate, knowing.

This was what was important right now. John. Only John.

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The last kill to be made was right in the middle of a high security facility.

In a cell where a man sat in solitary confinement, under constant surveillance. It was a man who had enough enemies and some friends in here.

The guards found him in the morning, his throat slashed. There were multiple marks of possible torture before death, but no one had heard a sound.

The cameras had recorded nothing. There were hours upon hours of video material, all untampered with, showing only a very much alive prisoner.

It was like a ghost had come and gone, taking a life no one would cry over.

Lorenzo Quinn was dead.

The head of HR had been removed, his lieutenants had already met their demise, and if there really was someone out there who had been missed in the carnage, he or she would lie very, very low. Probably leave the city, if not the state or the very country.

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In a place no one knew about, The Machine watched with a million eyes and listened with a million ears.

And in some extremely rare cases, it handled a matter concerning its Admin in a way the Admin wouldn't approve. Using a rogue asset had been risky, but the calculations had been close enough to a success to warrant the risk.

The threat to the Admin, the Contingency and their allies had been neutralized.

tbc...


	12. Chapter 12

He didn't meet Mark Snow again in person until the sixth of December. New York was cold, the rain even colder, and everything was gray and dreary and still so much bustling with life.

Life that had gone on.

Life that had to go on, with numbers coming in and people to save. People to stop from committing crimes. People who had suffered losses and grieved and hated the world.

John had hated that world for a while.

He still did, in a way, because the cracks were there, scarring over only slowly.

Carter had been a close friend; a very trusted ally; an invaluable asset. He had recruited her. He had liked her. She had become part of what he saw as a small circle of people he could rely on, and she had been one of the select few to be trusted.

Harold had brought her on board, had accepted her, had given her more than just the basics. They had all been through life and death situations, had brought down the worst, had seen each other bleed. John had entrusted Finch to her, that she wouldn't use him to get John, to betray him.

Now she was gone.

Finch had set up a trust for her son. It was his own way to care, to keep people safe. It was how he operated.

The Machine kept sending them numbers and it was healing Reese in its own way. He had a purpose. His skills and abilities were needed. He was needed.

Harold needed him.

And Harold had slowly revealed what had happened after he had finally gone down, had finally given in to the demands of his almost fatally weakened body.

John had tried to hold in his surprise, but he knew he had failed. Snow had killed, without a direct order from anyone, without personal gain. He had removed the last members of HR and had wiped the streets of stragglers who had tried to gain a new upper hand. Reese knew that crime in New York wouldn't grow any less, but a whole organization had been eradicated, all ties removed, cut and torn. The criminal minds or New York were wary, careful, watching their shadows, careful not to be noticed right now.

It was almost a relief, a breathing space, until someone stepped forward and took up the empty spaces.

No one knew who had killed Quinn. There were no traces and the investigation wasn't really going anywhere. Actually, a lot of detectives had no inclination to arrest whoever had murdered the head of HR. Procedure was used, everything was done by the book, but no results came from it.

X X X

Reese looked at the man in the woolen coat with the dark, knit hat in his head. He took in the ease stance, the loose posture, the face no longer lined with signs of pain and stress and an anger directed solely at himself. He was looking at an alpha who had accepted his past and was living in the present, not in his head and his memories. He was looking at a man who had finally shed the last layers of conditioning and training, who let himself be what he had always been: a supernatural predator. A wolf.

This was Mark, not Agent Snow. This was what Shaw had dug out from under the piles of misery and pain and masks. The façade had cracked and finally peeled off, like an old skin.

Reese couldn't recall ever seeing Mark this free, so unbound, so… himself.

The Agency was a part of his past, but it no longer dominated his thinking.

"Mark," he greeted his former pack leader.

Snow smiled, easy and almost amiable. There was no edge to that smile, no calculating look accompanying it.

"John. Mr. Finch." He inclined his head at the cipher.

Harold studied the taller man. "Mr. Snow. You look well."

The alpha chuckled. "It's been a relaxing few weeks."

"I heard," Reese replied, still keeping himself a step in front of Finch, though he didn't try to shield his partner. Finch wouldn't have that anyway. "You were busy."

"Keeping busy is part of the therapy. I think you know how well that works out for someone like us."

Reese was still tense, anticipating… anything at all, and his tension crawled up a notch when Finch stepped forward, facing Snow.

"Why?" he only asked.

"Instinct," was the easy answer, accompanied by a shrug.

"Instinct," Reese echoed, a rumble in his voice.

Snow didn't even bat an eye at the more than challenging posture, the way Reese was threatening him without putting it into words. John didn't want the alpha around, not with Harold so close, but Finch had no such reservations. He looked rather fascinated.

"It seems Ms. Shaw's gamble paid off," the cipher remarked.

"Apparently. She has qualities as a handler, though her methods shouldn't be applied to anyone but the supernatural. She is rather intense, but she gets the job done." Snow's expression grew more serious. "I believe I should thank you for your cooperation, too, Mr. Finch."

Reese tensed some more again. His hands clenched briefly, then he forced himself to relax, to anticipate any hostile move, to counter it, to protect his partner.

"What do you want, Mark?" he asked, voice low and gritty.

"Nothing more than before, John. Nothing at all. It seems my instincts were wrong all the time, that I never listened to what I am and what my other side could clearly tell me. The CIA trains that right out of you. It's the only way a wolf pack can function within an agency. It makes for a magnificent strike force, but for very poor werewolves. We function, like all agents, and we have no purpose outside the pack."

Reese studied him, aware of the truth in those words. The CIA was the only organization to employ packs; functional packs. Snow had changed, but he couldn't trust him. The wolf had almost killed him twice, had even threatened his partner. What he could do was work with that, with handling Snow as an asset, someone to call upon when needed, a resource.

"I am asking for a truce," the werewolf said evenly. "

Finch inclined his head. "I thought we had that."

Snow looked at the hellhound, no sarcasm, no mockery, no taunts in his eyes. "I'm here, John. To stay. I'm not going to slink off into the dark. I'm not asking for a place with your team."

"You don't have one," Reese growled, voice low and dangerous.

Finch laid a hand on his arm. It was barely a touch, barely a brush of his finger over Reese's suit jacket.

"New York is my territory now. I'm not going to create a new pack. I don't need it anymore. Not sure I could trust someone that deeply again. Alphas can survive on their own."

"If they have a purpose," Harold said. "You found one."

Snow chuckled. "In a way."

Reese knew what Snow had done, who he had killed, how far he had taken his territorial behavior. It was… not something Reese would have believed if it hadn't already happened. Finch wasn't sure who had managed to kill Quinn, Shaw or Snow, but in the end, the result was the same. Reese had simply shrugged. Whoever it was, he or she had done what had been on Reese's agenda; for a future date.

And for his former pack leader to confess that he couldn't trust pack anymore… it gave Reese a deeper look into the werewolf's torn soul. A wolf was a pack animal and would always seek out company. Or become a loner, a rogue, a dangerous supernatural on the edge.

"I'm not going to go rogue, John," Snow smiled disarmingly. "Shaw will take care of that, I'm sure."

Was she pack? What had Snow found to replace his missing pack with?

From the way Finch was studying the ex-CIA agent, he suspected something. He might have an idea what bound Snow to the city.

"If you want to continue the game, I'm game," Mark said calmly, looking into the hellhound's eyes. "It's entertaining, chases away the boredom. But I'm not your enemy. I think I never was. You know that a wrong handler can taint an agent. I lost my whole pack, all of them, to Corwin's machinations and manipulations."

Reese was silent. He knew all that. He was aware that what happened between them had been due to someone else's games. His instincts snarled at him that this was the agent who had tried to kill him, that he was a danger to Harold, but his logical side was aware that it wasn't the full truth.

He had to let go of the past, had to take a step forward and accept.

Like Jessica's death.

Carter's death.

Now Agent Snow. The man was no more. The supernatural creature known as Mark had come out underneath all that and the hellhound recognized him as… an equal.

Reese nodded. "Truce."

Mark looked actually a bit surprised, then smiled. Genuinely smiled. "Truce."

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It wasn't a first step.

That had been Reese not hunting the former CIA operative down and just killing him.

It also wasn't step two.

That had been Shaw keeping him sane.

It might be called step three, but maybe that had been Finch giving Snow a safe place to go to and a phone.

Reese watched the werewolf walk away, the easy steps and the roll in his gait a dead giveaway. Mark moved more smoothly, with more innate grace and fluidity than ever before.

"He's changed," he remarked, voice low, soft.

"More than we can see," Harold agreed.

They started out on a leisurely walk down the road, heading to where a car was waiting. John found himself almost shoulder to shoulder with his partner, the proximity calming his nerves even more.

"You think he'll be an asset," he stated.

Finch glanced at him, a small smile on his lips. "He already is."

"Do you trust him?"

"I trust Ms. Shaw's instincts."

"Not Mark."

"There is trust and then there is trust. I trust you, John. With my life. I trust Mr. Snow not to betray himself, to accept how far he has come, how strong he has become after shedding the leash that strangled his supernatural side. He is a free agent."

"Which you support and supply?"

"I can't see a downside to it," was the easy reply.

Reese chuckled, still feeling strangely warm and content when Harold had told him how much he trusted him. He knew that already, had known it for a while. That was what they had become through all the loss and pain and success and missions accomplished.

"Can you accept him, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked as they stopped next to a black limo.

Reese pondered the words.

Could he? Could he lower his guard enough to work with the alpha should he be required to do so? He had worked with worse and with less trust. Like Mark he had learned to listen to his instincts, not the training, and like Mark he had come out stronger after everything.

In a way they were very much alive. A hellhound didn't need the support of a pack to survive; a werewolf did.

"Shaw isn't his pack," he stated.

"No. She is a crutch," Finch agreed.

"So who is pack?" he asked, voice slightly rough.

It got John a smile. He snorted as he read the answer in there.

"Unlikely."

"Because he is an alpha? He is alone, John. Loneliness is a killer, as you well know yourself. He is relearning his life and maybe that lesson entails accepting something that is not pack as something that can replace the loneliness."

Finch got into the car and Reese joined him on the driver's side. They were completely alone on this side of town, no one around, barely a camera in sight. Reese didn't think that The Machine had lost track of its Admin or the Admin's partner, but right now, no human soul was around.

He reached out and briefly touched Harold's hand, brushing his fingers over the soft skin.

The blue eyes behind the round glasses widened a little at the unexpected, intimate contact outside the privacy of their home.

Their fingers interlaced, then slid apart, and John smiled.

"Please let us go home, Mr. Reese," Finch said, voice perfectly modulated.

But there was something in his eyes he couldn't hide. It was all Reese needed.

tbc...


	13. Chapter 13

Yes! *victory dance*  
I finally, finally made it! Done! This was a tough cookie, really. Hope you enjoyed the ride.

And yes, a bonus in the last chapter: Q makes a brief appearance :)

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He wouldn't be alone. Never again. Not as long as he had the man he had bound himself to - for the rest of his life.

John curled closer to Finch, enjoying the warmth, the brush of hands over his shoulders. His left hand was underneath the wide t-shirt Harold was wearing. It rested on the hot skin and John had his face buried against the cipher's side.

He was completely relaxed, all muscles at ease, and his mind seemed to float between waking and sleep.

It was the only time he allowed himself to be not on guard one hundred percent. Currently he was just shy of fifty, his senses picking up no threat, and all he felt was the connection between them.

It was beautiful and strong and alive with what they had. It was his nature, his strength, voluntarily bound to the other man. And it was Harold's strength, that unbeatable spirit, pulsing in soft waves, responding to John.

Finch's hand came to rest at his neck.

John merely sighed softly, contentment in every cell of his body.

It didn't matter what happened between them, as long as they were close. The physical side of what they did and could do wasn't handicapped by Finch's limitations. While Harold sometimes thought too much about it all, John easily reminded him that this was them.

He didn't need more.

This… only this…

He curled his arm around the other's waist and tightened the embrace slightly, a hug, a reassurance. For himself, for Harold.

"John."

He tilted his head a little and gave the cipher a lazy smile. It got him one in return and Reese pushed himself up to catch the tempting lips in a soft kiss, sliding his lips over the skin, down the neck, teeth nipping a little at where the neck met the shoulder.

Finch shivered.

His hand rested on his partner's side where the broken rib had healed a long time ago. He snaked it under Reese's t-shirt, tracing old scars. The touch was so incredibly light and still felt deeply. Reese was easily able to follow the random play of soft fingers over his skin. He didn't need to strain himself, just enjoy, let it happen, and he did.

John hummed, closing his eyes and settling against him once more.

_I love you_, he thought.

What they had lost would always be with them, but they had won as well. They had brought down HR. They had brought down the head, had cut it off.

Carter's death sat heavily with him, right next to the guilt he carried over Jessica's death. Like Jessica, she had been a large part of his life. Like Jessica, Joss Carter had changed him. Small changes that, when thrown together, had shaped him.

He missed her.

He missed both of them and he always would.

"John," Harold repeated, voice low, soft, intense.

"I'm okay," he answered, just as low.

"No. You will be," the cipher told him.

Yes, he would be. He would accept his failure and he would go on. He had other lives to protect.

He had Harold.

He had them, this, together.

Loss was part of life, especially his life. He had lost and he had gained and, sometimes, loss was what was needed.

Finch's fingers carded into his hair, scratching gently against his scalp, calming and reassuring.

John exhaled softly.

_I love you._

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He wasn't alone.

Even if he wasn't the pack leader anymore, even if he wasn't an alpha, nor a beta. He was something else and he felt good.

Alive.

Perfect.

The frigid air chilled him and Mark smiled, despite the biting cold that had come in over night. People around him had bundled up, faces buried deep in their scarves, hurrying along to get from one building to the next, seeking warmth.

He didn't mind.

He wore a winter coat, yes, and there was a scarf loosely wrapped around his neck. A hat was jammed on his head, but he didn't feel frozen. He felt alive. He breathed in the cold air and he felt like running.

It almost made the alpha laugh.

Now wouldn't that be a spectacle?

White flurries fell around him, resting on his shoulders, turning into gray sludge on the ground.

Winter in New York wasn't pretty.

But he wasn't in a hurry.

Mark let himself drift along with the crowds. His mind drifted as well, without ever losing focus on who was around him, what might become dangerous for him.

So much had changed in the past months. So much had turned around, had changed for the better, had made him better. For the first time in twenty years he was himself again, the supernatural he had been born as. He could trust in what he was, what he felt, and maybe even in those who handled him.

It was new and unexpected.

It wasn't entirely unwelcome.

When he finally reached his apartment, he stood in front of the converted warehouse building, Snow wondered if those instincts had been responsible for trusting Harold Finch. He had moved into this place and, while he had swept it daily top to bottom for any kind of surveillance, he felt at home here. It was his place and it was safe.

Mark walked inside, eyes automatically sweeping over everything, but no one had been inside. Nothing had been disturbed. His nostrils flared a little as he prowled around his territory, but he found nothing amiss.

He glanced at the phone Finch had given him.

It was dark and silent.

Snow placed it face down on the desk and went into the kitchen to get himself something to drink.

Whether his new handler called him or not, it made no difference. The way he felt did. He had a purpose and he had a territory. Whether John liked it or not, he now had to share.

Mark grinned into his drink.

Interesting times ahead.

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They hadn't been in contact for a while, but considering their jobs, their hours, the different time zones they lived and worked in, it hadn't been much of a surprise.

Q was currently out of contact with his agent, but he didn't seem worried. Not that he ever showed it, but Finch had gotten rather good at noticing such small things.

"You had quite an eventful time," the quartermaster of MI6 remarked calmly. "I am sorry for your loss."

"We all are. I hear you haven't heard back from your agent?"

Q gracefully accepted the change of topic. "I'm currently not that worried yet. 007 has a knack for coming back in one piece while leaving my valuable equipment behind or in pieces. I'm more worried about that."

Finch smiled. Bond being a phoenix might help with the worry, but he knew Q wasn't as cold-blooded as that. He didn't want his partner injured or worse. He simply couldn't spend all his time with worry when he had the job of Quartermaster at MI6. Too many other lives depended on him, too, even if he was Bond's only handler and the anchor to his phoenix.

"He has a knack, I agree," Harold now said conversationally. "I'm quite happy to say that Mr. Reese takes care of his guns, which there are plenty of everywhere, though Ms. Shaw loves to destroy the phones I supply her with."

"And your latest acquisition?"

"Mr. Snow is… not yet an active part."

"He sounds like a valuable addition." Q sounded thoughtful.

"He does. I understand that MI6 never employed werewolves and I am reluctant myself. It is a matter of past experiences on Mr. Reese's part, couple with possible trust issues."

"And those go all around?"

Yes, the younger man was sharp.

"He is an old alpha, used to taking the lead," Q agreed, sounding thoughtful. "But he has suffered loss and still survived, still managed to work with non-pack to get himself out of whatever hell he was in. Mr. Snow is a lone wolf and that is more of a selling point than a whole pack would be. He doesn't have to lead since no one of your team is a wolf."

"Mr. Reese is former pack."

"Former, Harold," Q argued. "And he's a hellhound. Whatever you decide, you seem to have interesting times ahead of you."

"That truly does sound like a Chinese curse to me."

Q chuckled. "It wasn't mean to be. Have you thought about… the other topic?"

Finch closed his eyes for a second, feeling tension creep through him. "I have," he finally said. "And I doubt now is the time to become this experimental. Not with what has happened and might still happen. Not with the danger we are in, the loss that John feels over Detective Carter's death. Has the Machine been in contact with you?"

"No. Actually, it has been rather quiet in that regard. Considering how busy I was just keeping Mr. Bond alive and running a whole branch at the same time, I didn't get much time to look very deeply. There has been no direct contact, though."

Harold nodded. He heard a soft noise and smiled a little, aware that the hellhound had arrived back the library, making just enough noise for the cipher to notice, to alert him to his presence.

"I have to go," he only said. "Take care of Mr. Bond."

"I always do. Should he accidentally drop by your place, I'd be very grateful to know if he is in one piece." Finch heard the underlying humor on that last sentence. "Good night, Harold."

And then he was gone.

Reese appeared like a shadow, silent, dark, soundless. His fingers automatically brushed over Finch's shoulder and along his neck, feather-light, barely there, and still the contact was almost electric.

"Riveting phone call?" he asked, voice low, gritty, slightly rough.

"Social call from Q."

"I see."

"You haven't actually run into Mr. Bond anywhere in New York in the last hour, have you, Mr. Reese?"

"You'd be the first to know, Finch," was the soft answer as Reese leaned down.

Finch glanced sideways, caught the intensely blue eyes, and his breath caught for a second.

Reese smiled, brushing his lips over his temples, then he straightened and went over to the tiny room they had dubbed a kitchen.

Finch watched him, feeling relaxed all of a sudden, the connection between them even and humming with nothing but pleasure. He let his fingers dance over the keys, but there was nothing new. No numbers, no mysterious events, nothing at all.

An evening off.

He pushed back and got up, limping slowly over to where he had hung up his coat.

"Any plans, Mr. Reese?" he asked, raising his voice just a little.

John met his eyes over the bottle of water he had grabbed from the fridge. "So far? None."

Harold slipped into the coat. "Then maybe we should catch an early dinner."

"And later?" was the low question as Reese joined him.

"I leave the plans for the rest of the evening up to you."

"Sounds like a plan," was the amused answer.

X X X

It was a good plan.

Just for them.

Part of the healing, part of the recovery, part of being who and what they were.

X X X

Above them, watching the streets of New York, watching the world, the Machine silently observed. Its eyes and ears were everywhere, but it had a special eye on its Admin and the Contingency.


End file.
